


As fire to the sun

by ElisAttack



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Age Difference, Canon Typical Religious-ness, Canonical Child Abuse, Credence Barebone Learning Magic, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Everyone's Just A Little Bit Broken, Explicit Sexual Content, Falling In Love, Fanart, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Period Typical Attitudes, Post-Canon, Sexual Tension, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Translated into 中文, Wandless Magic, Wandlore, but they all help each other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-05
Updated: 2018-02-03
Packaged: 2018-11-09 13:42:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 64,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11105742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElisAttack/pseuds/ElisAttack
Summary: How lonely it is, how devastating, that no one could tell—that no one noticed—you were not you.Or the one where Graves wonders what kind of man he is, and what kind of man he must become, both for Credence and himself.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [As fire to the sun烈日炙火](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12088488) by [LisaJane](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LisaJane/pseuds/LisaJane)



> Okay, so this is the first fic I've written in two years that hasn't been Teen Wolf. I've just been completely and utterly enchanted by this fandom--the fics and art are so damn good! I have a special love for post-movie Graves taking care of Credence, so that is what this is, and more! 
> 
> It will become sexually explicit in later chapters, but I won't tell you which chapter, because that would ruin the surprise ;)
> 
> I've written about half so far, and the final fic will be approximately 60k.
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> (Now with art!)

Credence cries some nights.  The stifled sobs soak into the foundation of Graves’ home, drifting through the halls, all the way to his room.  Graves lies awake these nights, helpless to do anything.  He doesn’t knows if Credence wants his help, or if all he sees is Him—no matter his reassurances otherwise—the betrayal and pain, his face the cause of it all.  

Graves rubs a hand over his chin.  The hairs are long and smooth across his palms.  He wishes he could shave, but his hands shake whenever he tries.

It’s all in his head, according to the healers.  Just as the dreams that awaken Credence, making him cry out like he’s in pain, are all in his head too.  Graves would laugh if it wasn’t altogether unamusing.

Graves climbs out of bed, unable to listen to Credence’s pain for a second longer.  Careful of the ache in his dominant hand—another reminder of his incompetence, of the months of pain he suffered as a result of it—he makes a velvet robe fly from the chair by the dead fireplace to drape over his shoulders.  It furls about his feet as he walks along the cold oak, avoiding the floorboards that creak.  A wave of a finger and a warming charm chases away the chill in the tips of his fingers.

He knocks on Credence door with a single knuckle, pushing it open just enough to step through.  

The chill is palpable and Graves’ breath drifts like smoke.  The fireplace lights with a murmured spell as he walks to Credence’s bed.  The boy lies, curled in a ball under the sheets, eyes wide as he watches Graves’ approach.  His pillow is soaked in tears, his hair mussed from tossing and turning in the grips of a night terror.  

“ _Percival_ ,”  he whimpers, fingers outstretched, reaching.  Credence slides forward, dragging the sheets with him and pressing his body closer, as Graves sits on the edge.  His fingers lock in Graves’ robe, digging into the velvet, crushing it.

Graves runs a thumb along Credence’s cheek, gently wiping away the wetness, even as more follows.

“Percival,”  Credence repeats, barely a whisper,  “I saw him.”

Bone lies delicate beneath his thumb.  “Grindelwald?”  He asks, voice rough.

Graves remembers agony, begging for respite, being locked away in a space too small, but too big.  He remembers a broken bone thrust through flesh.

Credence shakes his head, tears smearing like crystals in firelight.  

“Who then, sweet Credence?”  Graves fingers sweep to the thin skin stretched over a pale temple, a pulse throbs there.  Credence closes his eyes.  Graves hears the click of his throat.

“There was blood on his hands,”  his voice wavers, but he doesn’t answer Graves question, perhaps he is too afraid to put it into words.  “When he took my hand, there was blood on mine too.”

Graves smoothes his fingers through the baby hairs at Credence’s temple, soothing.  “You’re safe now, I won’t let anyone hurt you.”  He wraps his hand around the back of Credence’s head, pulling him up, closer to his chest.  Credence goes willingly, clutching at his lapels.  His cries, and it break Graves’ heart.  He wants to do everything he can to make sure he never cries like this again.  “I won’t ever let anything hurt you, Credence, never again.”  Graves promises, cradling him to his chest.

He holds Credence, and eventually the tears cease—exhaustion taking their place.  “Would you read to me?”  Credence asks quietly.

Graves picks up the book on the side table—an Anishinaabe historical tome Basile gave him years ago.  He flips to the bookmark and begins reading, a hand on the spine, the other carding through inky hair attached to a lonely, hurt boy curled in his lap.

Once Credence falls asleep, Graves dims the fireplace with a whisper.  He drifts to the sound of Credence’s peaceful breaths.

***

Tina had found him locked in a chest in the attic of his brownstone.  His arm had been broken, bone pierced through the skin.  He had been delirious, half-dead from sepsis.  After months locked away in that goddamned chest, he had believed he would die there.

Tina had led the investigative force examining the home Grindelwald had lived in—his home—when she had ventured up and found his mother’s old dowry trunk.  It was a little smaller than a music box, but his mother had charmed it to hold swathes of fabrics and her entire collection of books when she married his father.  There had been room enough for Graves within.

The look of surprise and horror on her face when she pulled him out will stay with him until his dying day.  

The healers had worked on him for days, but there are things that even Skele-Gro cannot fix.  He lived with that compound fracture for so long, he could hardly remember what it felt like not to constantly be in pain, shaking in terror.  Grindelwald had kept him alive, but he didn’t care if Graves was suffering.

His hands shake, and he drops his safety razor.  It clatters against the porcelain, splashing into the water collecting below.  

Graves swears.  

He’s supposed to get his wand from requisitions in a week, and he needs to be presentable to do so.  The beard sprawling over his face is simply the opposite of what he wants.  With bags under his eyes, hair grown until it touches his ears, gaunt cheeks, and the beard, he looks like a shadow of his former self.  He cannot do anything about the bags, hair, or his cheeks, but he can shave off the beard—at least he believed he could.

“Percival, are you alright?”  Credence asks through the bathroom door, Graves must have not been as quiet as he thought.

“I’m fine,”  Graves says shortly, staring at his reflection.  His undershirt is not as fitted as it once was, and his slacks are sliding off his hips, barely held up with a belt, he looks even more ridiculous with foam all over his sunken in face.  

He needs to have his clothes taken in, at least until he can put weight back on.  Dolly knew those spells, but Graves has no idea where his house elf is.  He hopes Grindelwald simply dismissed her.  He doesn’t know what he would do if he murdered her.  Dolly had been with him since he left his parents’ house.  After his fallout with Roland, her presence made the loneliness bearable.

He wonders if Roland knows what happened to him—wonders if he cares after what Graves did to him.

“May I come in?”  Credence asks, but Graves cannot see him like this, he needs to be strong, to be a protector.  “Please?”  The voice is quiet, but patient, like Credence will wait outside the door until Graves finally decides to emerge.

Graves waves his finger and the door unlocks.  Credence slips in, his head bowed, that terrible bowl cut grown out enough that raven bangs fall over his eyes.  He looks up and his gaze meets Graves’ in the mirror.  No words pass between them as Credence walks closer until they stand shoulder to shoulder.  He picks the razor from the sink, shaking off the water.

“May I?”  He asks, long fingers wrapped around the silver handle.

“Do you know how?”

Credence nods.  He’s looking in the direction of Graves’ jaw, black eyes flitting along the whorls of hair.  “For two years now.”  He raises a finger to his own face, tracing along his jawline and over his top lip.  “It grows here, but I was not allowed to let it for more than a few days.”

Damn Mary Lou.  If Credence wants to grow facial hair, Graves will support him, even if he personally thinks it looks tacky on younger men.

“Have you used one of these before?”  He looks pointedly at the safety razor in Credence’s hand.

Credence shakes his head.  “Ma gave me an old kitchen knife and a bar of lye soap, I made do.”

Graves purses his lips.  A kitchen knife to shave.  How many times must Credence have cut himself?  Knowing Mary Lou’s sadism, the knife was likely dull and rusty.  

The day Graves needed his first shave, his father took him to a proper barbershop.  A week after that, he was sat down in front of a mirror and taught to use a straight razor.  The first time he cut himself, his father had healed the wound, then reassured him he would get better over time.

During the Great War, Graves used a safety razor out of convenience, but became so accustomed to the simplicity, he never went back.  He still has the straight razor given to him.  Graves thinks he might give it to Credence.

“Okay,” he agrees.  Graves figures if Credence cuts him, it would be the least of the injuries he has suffered his forty-one years on this earth.

Credence touches him on the chin, tilting his head slightly.  He’s a bit taller, even with his shoulders hunched as they are.  Graves steadies his hip on the edge of the sink as Credence lightly runs the razor under his sideburns, working down in short, controlled movements.  His brow is furrowed in concentration, his tongue peeking through his lips.

Graves shifts his eyes, watches the movements of Credence’s wrist, the delicate bone, the short hairs on his skin.  He holds his breath as the hair is shaved from his throat, razor constantly changing directions with the grain.

[Tumblr link to art](http://iamonlydancing.tumblr.com/post/162255501547/art-for-chapters-one-to-four-of-as-fire-to-the-sun)

When it is done, Graves wipes his face with a wet towel, handed to him by Credence.  Aftershave splashed on his skin floods the bathroom with the scent of cloves, citrus, and bay.  He laughs, studying his clean-shaven face in the mirror.  “You could be a barber if you wanted.”  Not a single cut on his skin, not even a burn.  

Credence stares at his feet, but his ears are slightly redder than before.  Graves chuckles at the bashfulness.  He runs a thumb over Credence’s jaw and bristles scratch beneath the pad.  Credence looks at him, dark eyes blinking, unreadable.

“Thank you, Credence.”  

Yes, he thinks he will give the straight razor to Credence.

***

Since Credence materialized in his office a week ago, his well being entrusted to him, Graves hasn’t come into work.  Seraphina gave him explicit instructions to get Credence settled in before returning.  He doesn’t even have his wand, so he supposes time off is for the best.  

His duties have been split amongst his aurors, until the time he decides to return.  It shan’t be long, Credence is already pretty much self-sufficient.  He can cook, and can feed himself, so long as Graves tells him it is alright to eat as much as he wants.  All that is left to be done is to buy clothing for Credence, as well as supplies to get his magical education started.

Credence wears Graves’ robes.  If Graves thought they fit himself poorly, they look even more ridiculous on Credence, hanging off his skinny form, making him look even younger than his twenty-four years.  They must look quite the pair, stepping out of Graves’ brownstone.  The city is warming, but it is not enough for Credence to just wear shirt sleeves.  The piercing wind coming off the Hudson still chills to the bone.  

“Why are they looking at us?”  Credence asks lowly, sticking as close to Graves’ side as possible.  A few witches and wizards stare as they pass, no doubt due to the tell-all the Ghost published about Grindelwald’s time impersonating him.

“Don’t worry.”  Graves runs a soothing hand down Credence’s spine.  “They don’t know about you. It’s me they're gawking at.  The New York Ghost—this city’s foremost wizarding newspaper—published a rather scathing review about my qualifications as Director.”

“Why?”  Credence asks, genuinely confused.  “Wouldn’t you be the best man for the job?  He had you for months, you must have spoken to him, discovered his plans.”

Graves shudders, and his hand tightens on Credence’s back as he leads him into a nearby alleyway for disapparation.  “I knew him about as well as you did, which is to say hardly at all.”

When Grindelwald was impersonating him, he used to stop by, sometimes to torture Graves under cruciatus for more information about himself, or simply because Graves was the only one who knew who he really was.  Grindelwald took great pleasure in torturing Graves, physically and mentally, but he never gave his own secrets away.

“I knew enough, Percival.  I knew when I first laid eyes on you that you were not him.”

“Obviously not, my hair is much longer.”  Graves tucks a curl behind his ear, reminding himself to make time for a trip to the barber.  He did not have access to one in his mother’s dowry chest, and his hair has long grown out of the undercut he’s worn for years.  He would ask Credence to trim it back, but he’s not sure if that path will end in a bowl cut.  He doesn’t want to take the chance.

Credence shakes his head, hand gripping lightly at Graves’ sleeve.  “That’s not what I meant.  Your eyes are different.”

“How do you mean?”  Graves asks, pulling Credence closer, getting ready to disapparate.  He is skilled enough to do it without a wand, and while taking someone side-along.  He’s glad for it.  Graves might have driven himself insane having to walk everywhere if he was unable, or Credence didn’t take to it well.

“You have kindness, Percival.  His eyes were nothing but cold, even as he tried to prove otherwise when he healed Ma’s lashings.”  Credence’s mouth twists in unhappiness.

The world dissolves around them, and deposits them into another alleyway.

He still holds Credence, and holds him for a second longer, an arm twined around a thin waist.  If Credence had known him before Grindelwald, would he have noticed his replacement?

“Thank you.”

“What for, Percival?”

For noticing.  “For being so sweet.”  Credence blushes, and Graves feels an incredible fondness build in his chest.  “Come along then, let’s get you some clothes that actually fit.”

Graves walks out of the alley, Credence at his heels.  “You don’t have to buy me anything, you’ve already done so much for me—”  Credence stops speaking, his mouth clicks open as he finally sees all that is around him.  “Where are we?”  He asks, voice full of blatant wonder.

“A wizarding shopping district,”  Graves says, leading them through the flow of pedestrians, “One of many in the city.”

Credence stops in front of a shop, staring at the cages of mail owls and pigeons hanging from the rails under the awning.  A fancy pigeon with a black and white body shakes its spotted tail feathers, cooing softly at Credence.

Graves smiles and wraps his hand around Credence’s, tugging him gently away.  “Don’t worry, we’ll get you a mail pigeon some other day.  Today is just for the essentials.”

“Mail pigeon?”

“Yes, wizards use owls or pigeons to carry correspondences to each other.  They can travel both long and short distances, but it takes a while for them to go over the Atlantic, and you have to make sure your bird is registered to do so.”

“How do they know where to go?”  Credence asks as they stop in front of Graves’ favourite tailor, the latest fashions on display in the shop window.  There’s a waistcoat of the darkest teal silk draped over a mannequin, stitched with delicate embroidery.  It would look wonderous on Credence.

“We tell them.”  Graves pushes the door, holding it open for Credence, who happens to look incredibly confused.  “Magic, Credence,”  Graves says, hoping that’s explanation enough.  To be completely honest, he’s not entirely sure how the birds know where to go himself.  They’ve always flown where he’s told them to.  It’s never been any way else, but he understands how that might confuse someone used to no-maj ways.  “I’ll buy you a book, it can explain better than I can.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I want to,”  Graves affirms.

Janus emerges from the back room, and Credence startles when he sees him.  “Mr. Graves,”  he looks up over his hooked nose.  “It’s lovely to see you as yourself again, sir.”  Janus turns to Credence, studying the boy, frowning when he sees the misfitted clothes.  “I see you have a situation at hand.”

“Janus, this is Credence.  Credence, this is Janus, the best tailor this side of the Atlantic.”  Graves introduces the goblin to the boy.  Credence bends and shakes Janus’ hand to the goblin's amusement.  

A tape measure flies and settles around Janus’ shoulders.  “You flatter me, sir.”

“I should hope,”  Graves says,  “I will need a few ready-to-wear outfits for him, shoes, as well as undergarments, and an entire fitted wardrobe.  As you can see, he has been wearing my clothes, and they do not suit him.”

Janus looks Graves up and down, and sends him a frown that implies his own clothes do not fit, a fact he is already well aware of.

“Very well, sir.  Would you like for them to match the style and cut of your own?”

Graves shakes his head.  “Something a bit younger perhaps?”  He turns to Credence who stands with his head bent, fingers lightly running over a bolt of burgundy velvet.  “How do you feel about colour, Credence?”

Credence startles, drawing his eyes away from the fabric to Graves.  “I’m sorry, Percival?”

Janus walks over to the bolt.  With a wave of a finger it flies out of its slot, and unfolds a few times, hovering in the air before Credence.  “Feel it again, boy.”

Credence casts a glance towards Graves, and when he nods his head, encouraging, he runs his finger along the fabric again.

“Do you like it?”  Credence nods, and Janus smiles a sharp toothed smile.  “Then I will coordinate a wardrobe around this fabric.”  The bolt flies off to the backroom.  “Now, if you would stand here, please.”

Janus leads Credence over to a raised platform in front of a series of mirrors, a changing screen on the other side.  Graves takes a seat on a nearby armchair.  Janus’ tape measure floats and begins taking measurements.  Credence lifts his arms, turns around, and does as directed while Janus jots notes on a pad.

After Janus takes his notes with him to the backroom to get the ready-to-wear clothes, Credence takes a seat by Graves’ side.

“Enjoying yourself?”  Graves asks.

Credence nods.  “You don’t have to buy me many clothes, Percival, I can wash them myself.”

Graves rests his hand on his chin, legs crossed.  He smiles fondly.  “I don’t have to, but I want to.  I have too much money, and no one to spend it on, humour an old man?”

“You’re not old,”  Credence says without a pause, “And you can spend it on yourself.”

“You’re kind, but alas a man in my position earns more money that he can spend on one person.  The casualties of being a bachelor, I suppose.”  He sighs.  “And without Dolly, I have no one to pay a salary to.”

“Who is Dolly?”  Credence asks.

“My house elf.”

Credence looks surprised.  “Elves exist?  Is that what Mr. Janus is?”

Graves shakes his head.  “No, Janus is a goblin.  They tend to be bankers, but Janus prefers the art of stitching fabric over the art of managing dragots.”

“Your elf then, she’s missing?”  Credence asks, as clever as ever.

“Unfortunately.  I believe Grindelwald dismissed her.  I hope he dismissed her, it’s better than the alternative.”  Neither of them address what that might be.

Credence reaches out and lightly pats the back of his hand.  “She must have heard about what happened to you by now, perhaps she will return?”

“Maybe,”  Graves says, unconvinced.  He turns his hand over so he holds Credence’s palm to palm

“I’m sure she will, I imagine you are a fair and good employer.”

Graves smiles, feeling his eyes crinkling at the corners.  Credence’ throat bobs, surprise in his gaze.  Graves imagines Grindelwald didn’t do much smiling while he was with Credence, Merlin only knows why, the boy is an absolute delight.  Lifting the hand not held by Credence he pushes sharply cut bangs from his face.  “It’s getting quite long, would you like to cut it back?”

Pink blooms on Credence’s cheeks and Graves thinks colour is a good look on him.

“No, I want it to grow out, if that is alright?”  Credence asks tentatively, as if that decision is up to Graves.

“That’s more than alright,”  Graves lightly tugs a lock of hair,  ”Although I fear you might start looking like Newt.”

Credence lifts his shoulder, a delicate shrug.  “I don’t mind, I like Newt.”

“Yes, I imagine his bohemian style is popular among young people nowadays.”

Credence’s brows perform a complicated action and his lips quirk for a second before returning to his usual composed expression.  Graves dearly wants to know the thoughts running through his head.  

“What were you thinking, just now?”  He asks, running a thumb along Credence’s palm, coaxing the truth from him.  Credence ducks his head.  Looking down at his lap, he bites his lip.  Graves thinks he’s not going to say anything, so he prepares to change the subject, so not to push him, but Credence surprises him.

“I was thinking you’re showing your age, Percival.”

Graves throws his head back and laughs warmly, the sound echoing in all corners of the shop.

“Merlin, Credence, with humour like that you could make the most acrimonious wizard crack a smile.”

“Thank you,”  Credence says politely.  Graves slides his hand out of his hair just as Janus emerges from the backroom, a plethora of clothes on hangers floating after him.  Credence doesn’t need to try them on, Graves knows Janus’ abilities—they’ll fit.  

He tells Credence to look over the clothes and select at least three sets of slacks, seven shirts, two waistcoats, as well as a set of robes, although Graves encourages him to choose more.  He pulls Janus aside.

Gesturing to the waistcoat in the window display, he asks if he might purchase it.  Janus smiles slyly.  

“Yes, you may.  It would suit the young man finely.”

Graves strongly agrees.  He imagines the dark, almost black teal, would make Credence look even more mysterious.  “Please charge it to my invoice.”

“Is that all, Mr. Graves?”  Janus asks,  “Perhaps you would like to pick out a collar pin for your lover?”

Graves’ face floods with heat and he looks to Credence, hoping he hasn’t overhead.  Thankfully, he is behind the screen, changing into a set of his new clothes, Graves’ old ones hanging over the top.  He did not hear.

“He’s not my lover,”  Graves whispers harshly.

Janus’ smile is slow, but it slides onto his face like a snake—showing his goblin heritage.  “My mistake, sir, for your boy then.”

Graves purses his lips, face still burning in embarrassment.  He doesn’t look the sort making a habit of bringing young men to shops, and dressing them for later unwrapping, does he?  Apparently Janus thinks he does.

“He’s not my boy, he’s my ward.”

“If you say so.”

“Percival,”  Credence says, voice muffled, “Can you help me?”

Graves sends a final glare Janus’ way, before walking across the store to Credence, slipping behind the screen.  He stops and stares at the boy.  He looks good in a set of black slacks and white collared shirt, covered by a simple waistcoat.  Graves’ eyes drift to his collar, and he sees what Credence called him over for.

His black necktie is knotted like it’s a cravat.  He supposes Credence has never worn an actual tie in his life, just slips of fabric he could knot easily and call it a day, which explains the travesty around his neck.

“Here,”  Graves offers, undoing the makeshift cravat,  “Watch.”   

Credence looks down, the bottom of his chin grazing over Graves’ hands as he folds a simple knot, explaining each step as he goes.  When he is done he lifts the tie and tucks it into the waistcoat, smoothing it down with the palm of his hands.  He looks up, a ‘there’ on the tip of his tongue, but Credence is so close, the word slides back down his throat.

Credence’s eyes are full and dark, running over Graves’ face.  He doesn’t think he’s ever seen Credence look at him for such a long period of time.  Like he knows what Graves is thinking.  Credence casts his eyes down, once again staring at his shoes.

Graves clears his throat, and steps away.  He looks around but doesn’t see a belt anywhere.  “I’ll be back, just let me grab a belt.”

Credence grabs his arm, halting him, but he lets go almost instantly, apologetic.  

“Could I wear suspenders instead?”  He asks his shoes.  Graves nods, even though he knows Credence did not see.

He returns with a set of black suspenders, handed to him by Janus.  Showing Credence how to attach them to the waistband, he watches as he pulls them over his shirt sleeves, settling them into the cradle of his shoulders.  Graves hands him the waistcoat, watching in satisfaction as Credence tucks his tie into it, just as he showed him, pulling woolen robes over top.

Graves steps out from behind the screen and finds a case of collar pins waiting for them on the platform.  He looks up with narrowed eyes to Janus, but finds him folding the clothes Credence chose, as well as Graves’ old ones, tucking them into a small canvas bag with an extension charm on it.

He picks up the case, collar pins set on a blanket of black velvet.  He sees the scorpion he usually wears, set with garnets instead of emeralds, but moves past it.  Credence wearing the same collar pin as him would truly make it look like he is nothing more than his rent boy, a conclusion he doesn’t want anyone else to reach.  Once is more than enough.

A pin catches his eye, and he picks it up, wondering at the coincidence.  

“Percival?”  Credence asks, walking up to him, looking over his shoulder,  “What are those?”

He sets the case down, then turns around to face Credence.  The snowflake obsidian pigeons, attached to two silver pins with a ring holding them together, glints in the light coming from the storefront window.  They are twins to the pigeon that cooed at Credence—the obsidian, spotted like it was.

“Percival,”  Credence protests even as Graves affixes them to his collar, “I cannot, it’s too beautiful.”

“It suits you, I want you to have it,”  Graves says, and that’s all to the matter.

With a bag in hand, an invoice tucked into his robes, and a promise from Janus to have the tailored clothes delivered in a week’s time, they leave the shop.  Graves notes with pleasure that the teal waistcoat is missing from the mannequin.  

He places a hand at the small of Credence’s back and guides him towards the bookshop across the street.  After that, they’ll visit the barber.  Graves dearly misses his undercut.

***

Credence reads in a shaft of sunlight coming in from the study window, curled on the brocade recamier he purchased in Paris, after the war—back when he thought Theseus and he could be more than two friends taking physical comfort in each other during violent times.  He had seen it in the shop and automatically pictured the two of them sitting together, reading in quiet moments.  Unbeknownst to him at the time, Theseus has little patience for reading.

As it is, nearly a decade later, he still has Theseus’ friendship, even if he no longer desires his love.

Credence reads the book Graves promised him about magical postal services.  It’s a small volume, understandably since was in the no-maj born section, catering to eleven year olds just receiving their letters from Ilvermorny.  Graves needn't worry about Credence getting bored.  At the foot of the recamier sits stacks of books, tall enough to waver dangerously.  Graves organized them in a specific order for Credence to read.  It should take him a few weeks, at least.  Only after he is finished learning the basics of the magical world, Graves will take him to get a wand.  Then, he can start learning spellwork.

Credence doesn’t seem to mind, considering how absorbed he is in the book.  All Graves can see of his face is two eyebrows furrowed in concentration.  His nose is quite literally buried in it.

Graves smiles and dips his quill in ink, getting back to business.  He’s writing a letter to an acquaintance of Dolly’s, enquiring after her.  He will send it, and hopefully get a positive response soon to put his fears to rest.  If she is alive, he will ask if she would like to return to his service, if not, he will pay her severance generously.  He doubts Grindelwald would have thought about that.

If Dolly’s acquaintance has not seen her, well, he will cross that bridge when he comes to it.

He waits for the ink to dry, then folds the letter.  He will give it to his owl when she returns after hunting, in the morning.

Picking up a new sheet of paper he places it in front of him and stares.  He has another letter to write, but he hardly knows how to begin this one.  He runs a hand over the back of his head, freshly trimmed bristles scratching his palm.

Graves has made quite a few mistakes in his life.  From inventing in his head a Theseus that didn’t exist, to letting his guard down and being cocky enough for Grindelwald to capture him.  He still thinks his biggest mistake will always be the moment he turned his back on Roland.  

Graves doesn’t know how Roland could ever begin to forgive him for what he did.  At the very least, writing a letter is a start.  

He puts the quill to paper and begins.

_May this letter find you well, my dearest brother…_

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Extra early update since I'm gonna be out of the city for at least a week, and I don't know if I'll have internet in the middle of bumfucknowhere.
> 
> FYI, returning readers, I embedded art for the shaving scene in the first chapter, if ya'll wanna check it out. If everything in RL goes according to plan, there will be art for every chapter!

Graves sits behind his desk, catching up on the work he missed, thumbing through report upon report.  The last time he spent a full work day in his office, Credence had materialized in front of him.  

Graves still doesn’t know how Credence managed to get into MACUSA without using the front door, and he’s afraid to ask again.  The last time he tried, Credence had burst into tears, saying the last thing he remembered were flashes of cold light and the feeling of being torn asunder.  Graves, in a hurry to avoid bringing up bad memories, had quickly dropped the subject, even though Grindelwald’s attack on the city had occurred months before, and Graves was horribly curious about where Credence had been during that time.

Credence had smoked around the edges when he appeared, like he wasn’t completely corporeal, his clothes were in shreds, singed at the ends.  It had looked like fire was licking at his heels.  Graves knows there’s still a few scorch marks on the floor where he stood.  

Credence had taken one good look at him, and turned paler than death herself.  He had called him, “Mr. Graves,” before fainting.  It had been the greatest surprise of Graves’ life, but he still managed to lunge out of his chair in order to catch him.

Tina had burst into his office then, claiming the wards were going crazy, only to see Credence bundled in Graves’ arms.  The myriad of emotions that had passed over her face still amuse him to this day.  Eventually, she had settled on a determined expression, pulling her wand straight from her holster, telling him to drop Credence.

Obviously, he refused.  It would have meant dropping an unconscious boy on a hardwood floor.  He could have been hurt.  

Instead, it was Graves that was hurt when his own auror thought he had been so easily impersonated twice.  Grindelwald may be many things, but he isn’t an idiot to try the same stunt again.  Besides, he was and is still locked up tight in the cells, while MACUSA prepares for extradition.

After a long argument that ended with Tina casting a revelio charm that did nothing but erase the concealing charms he had put over the dark circles under his eyes, she had finally helped him place Credence in a chair by the fireplace, an apologetic expression on her face.  She had asked if Graves wanted her to fix the concealment charms on his eyes.  Graves—and his pride—had refused.

Credence had woken barely a few minutes later to Tina and Queenie crouched over him, comforting and reassuring while Graves stood to the side, so as not to shock him again.  With Credence in a sound state, his two protectors standing at his sides, Graves had sat in the armchair across.  Four steaming cups of tea, untouched on the table between them.  

Credence had stared down at his cup, eyes never leaving it, even as Tina had squeezed his shoulder.

Graves had swallowed, nervous and worried.  He had thought that it would be best if he left Credence be.  After all, a man wearing his face had committed innumerable grievances against him; pretending to care for him, then hurting him.  Grindelwald had betrayed him, all the while he looked like Graves.

Graves had tried to be reassuring when he said, “There’s no reason to be afraid, I’m not him.”

And Credence—wonderful, smart, caring Credence—after meeting him barely ten minutes before, did not even lift his head when he said, “I know.  You’re nothing like him.”

***

Now that he’s back at work—Credence at home, occupied by a long reading list—Graves has much to get caught up on.  The last time he took time off work was before he was even Director, and it was to attend his brother’s graduation.  Roland had not been head boy or even a prefect—unlike Graves, who had been both—but he had still been so proud of him.

“You’re finally back,”  Once of his senior aurors, Magda, leans against his open door, her smile as sardonic as ever.

“Yes,”  Graves says shortly, nodding, before looking back at his paperwork, hoping she gets the message to leave him alone, but knowing Magda…

“How’s the boy doing?  Any smoke, explosions, or even fire and brimstone?”  She asks, humour in the smile on her lips, but not in her tone.  Magda had been one of the aurors who cursed Credence in the subway all those months ago.

Graves cannot blame her for what she did.  She was just doing her job—following Seraphina’s orders.  Just as he cannot blame Seraphina for ordering it.  Seraphina had tried to protect the city, and as far as Graves is concerned, she redeemed herself when she agreed to let him take Credence under his wing instead of locking him up as some, less kind congressmen wanted.

“Credence is fine.”

“Are you bothering the Director, Lopez?”  Auror Devi slides in behind Magda.  She wears the auror uniform, unlike Magda who has on what appears to be a silk blouse with tiny embroidered tigers on it, instead of the departmentally mandated shirt and tie.  

Devi’s only vice is the thick lines of kohl she smudges over her dark eyes, but Graves has no complaints.  She’s his most effective auror during interrogations.  She sits and says nothing, only watching with dark eyes, neck coiled to strike.  As soon as she enters a interrogation, criminals’ tongues start wagging.

She is the embodiment of her animagus, a purple heron.  He handpicked her himself from Ilvermorny, knowing right away that she would become a great auror.  She might be the youngest member of his team, but she’s his favourite.  Devi respects him, unlike Magda.

“It’s good to have you back, sir,”  Devi says, “My report for the time you were gone.”  She places a folder on his desk, marked with tabs, papers as neat as ever.  He suspects Magda didn’t even bother to write one.

“Brownnoser,”  he hears Magda whisper.  Yes, as suspected.  

He flips open the report, and chuckles at what he sees.  Clearing his throat, he reads out loud, “Auror Magdalena Lopez arrests two wizards charged with public mischief.  Instead of reading the wizards’ rights, she asks after the spell used to enlarge a witch’s pet crup to three times its regular size, saying, ‘I wonder if it will work on my owl?’”  

Magda makes an indistinguished squawking noise.  She whirls on Devi.  “Why would you put that in there, I was only joking!”

Devi folds her arms, expression as unimpressed as ever.  Graves doesn’t think he’s ever seen her smile.  “The Director instructed me to report on the activities of the team, as you are part of said team, I reported you.”

Magda throws her hands in the air.  “What about Tina?”

“Auror Goldstein has acted as professional as ever in the Director’s absence—”

“She eats hot dogs while on duty,”  Magda argues.

“A ‘hot dog’ is an effective disguise for blending in with no-majs,”  Devi says wisely.

Graves leans back his chair.  Picking up the report, he quickly skims through it, the sound of his two aurors bickering, a familiar comfort in the background.  

They may not be as close as other department heads to their employees, but he is content with the relationship they have.  For Merlin’s sake, Abernathy invites his employees to his home, the man has no sense of professional boundaries—it’s obscene.  He is just begging for a harassment lawsuit to be placed right in his lap.

Graves shuts the report and returns it to his desk.  Folding hands over a crossed knee, he watches Magda grumble and groan at an unruffled Devi.  

He wonders if Abernathy’s employees would have noticed if Grindelwald had chosen him instead of Graves.  Devi didn’t notice, Magda didn’t notice, Tina only noticed after Newt Scamander told her.  

Newt Scamander—a man he had only heard about from Theseus’ stories—knew that Graves wasn’t himself before his own aurors did.  

Graves would trust these three women with his life, yet they did not even suspect he was not himself.

“Director?”  Devi asks, pulling him out of his thoughts.

“I am fine, Auror Devi.”  He smiles at her, and she blinks, surprised.  Has he never smiled at her before?  He cannot seem to remember.  “I need to collect my wand from requisitions, if you would excuse me.”  He rises, smoothing down his waistcoat to straighten the crinkles.  

“Sir?”  Devi calls after him, Magda standing with her, shoulder to shoulder.  Graves stops, his hand on the doorknob.  She reaches into her robes, pulling out a box wrapped in newsprint.  “The three of us, Goldstein, Lopez, and I purchased this for Mr. Barebone, if you would give it to him?”

Graves takes the package, it’s of medium weight, and nondescript.  “What is it?”  He asks.

“A writing set,”  Magda answers, “The President informed us you would be teaching Barebone, so we thought he could use some supplies.  It’s the least we could do after, I well…”  She trails off, scratching the back of her neck sheepishly.

Graves floats the box over to his desk, and tips his head in thanks, perfunctory, even when his heart swells with affection for the three women he trusts to always have his back.  “Thank you, I know he will love it.”

***

Wand Requisitions has always been a gloomy place.  Located right by the Wand Permit Office, and run by the same staff.  Requisitions is collectively known as the seventh circle of hell.  It’s nothing but a circular waiting room with chairs designed to be as uncomfortable as possible, placed around a central desk hosting whatever witch or wizard unlucky enough to be assigned that dreaded shift.

It’s yet another reason to hate Grindelwald.  He cannot believe the man had the audacity to place one of his most talented aurors in this cess-pit.  Graves huffs at even the thought of it.  

Tina may have broken laws, but even that did not qualify the punishment she received.  At worst, she should have received a week’s suspension, unpaid.  Then again, she had been close to Credence, and that familiarity was the opposite of what Grindelwald wanted.  That alone likely qualified her for demotion.

Graves takes a number ticket from the dispenser.  The room is relatively empty, with only a older gentleman wearing a newsboy cap over his eyes, snoring quite loudly.  With arms folded over his chest, he appears to have been here for a while.

As he is about to take a seat, a voice he recognizes calls his number.  

He’s not looking forward to conversing with Queenie Goldstein.  She’s a talented legilimens, and occlumency hasn’t come easily to him since Grindelwald made a sport of breaking his mind.

He clears his thoughts.  Graves doesn’t think he can manage a more advanced form—blanking his mind is difficult enough with his concentration shot to all hell.

“Mr. Graves, it’s so lovely to see you.”  Queenie smiles brightly as Graves leans over the counter, waving his ticket in the air, Queenie’s smile grows even wider.  “Teenie mentioned you’d be showin’ up today, all spick and span, ready to get your wand back.”

Graves quirks a brow.  “Did she now?”

Queenie claps a hand over her mouth, eyes wide.  “Oh, was that supposed to be a secret?”

“Not a secret, Miss Goldstein.”  Graves shakes his head.  “I didn’t know Tina talked about me.”

“Mr. Graves, she’s never quiet about you.”  She taps a finger against her temple.  “Even up here.  She’s always wondering _‘what would Mr. Graves do?’_  It’s all very charming,  She’s so invested in making you as proud of her as humanly possible.”

Graves raises his eyebrows, that’s news to him, he didn’t know Tina cared that much about what he thought.

“Of course she does, Mr. Graves, she admires you,” Queenie addressing his thoughts, breaking right through his pathetic attempt at occlumency.  “Don’t worry.”  Queenie pats him on the hand, rising from her seat.  “If you mastered it once, surely you can do it again.  Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be right back in a jiffy with your wand.”

Graves sighs, running a hand through his hair.  Turning around, he leans against the counter.  

The snoring man picks his nose in his sleep, then disgustingly eats whatever he found.  Graves makes a face and turns away.  There’s a couple of magazines on the counter.  He grabs one.  Might as well, it’s better than watching a grown man pick his nose like he’s a child.

Distractedly, he flips through the fashion rag.  It must be Queenie’s—colourful flapper dresses and hats displayed on tall models—exactly her style.  

His eye catches an article, and stops mid flip.

 _Dressing Your Dapper Fellow!_ The article says, and Graves hums thoughtfully.  The men pictured are younger, much more spry than him.  They look about Credence’s age.  There’s an illustration of a tall man with slicked black hair, narrow-legged grey slacks, white shirt and burgundy bowtie.  But what really catches his attention, drawing him right in, is a forest green cardigan.  It clings to the model’s body, lapels flat against his chest, a peek of shirt showing through.  

The model’s face is turned away, but Graves can easily picture Credence in his place.  

His breath catches in his throat.  The style is more casual than the wardrobe he purchased from Janus.  It is something Credence could wear around the house.

The sweater would be soft, cashmere straight from Uxbridge, he imagines, soft beneath his fingers.  Credence would look like a college boy, shiny cap-toe oxfords tapping against the coffee table in Graves’ study as he reads, spread out on the recamier.

“Oh my!  Has anyone told you that you’ve got a real powerful imagination, Mr. Graves?”

He slams the magazine shut, pushing it far away, mortified at being caught.  Queenie’s lips quirk in a knowing expression, and once again Graves wonders what ever happened to his control.  

“No, Miss Goldstein, I do think you’re the first to dare.”

“You should go for it, y’know,”  She giggles pushing a black wand box across the counter, “I think Credence would look real swank.”

Graves purses his lips, hopefully showing just how displeased he feels.  Taking his wand from the box, he tucks it into his holster, definitely not thinking about Grindelwald’s slimy hands touching it—killing with it.

Queenie smiles brightly.  “You have a nice day now, Mr. Graves.”

Graves tips his head.  “Miss Goldstein.”

***

Graves opens his front door to find Credence waiting in the foyer for him.  He must have heard Graves apparate into the alley beside the brownstone, and come running.  

Graves did say he would be home at six o'clock, and it’s seven now.  Was Credence waiting for him?  If so, how bored must he have been all alone in the house by himself?

“Percival,”  Credence greets, helping Graves out of his overcoat, like he’s playing at being a house elf.  “A letter came for you.”

Graves looks up sharply at the thick envelope in Credence’s other hand, then to his eyes which seem to shine vibrant.

“I see you met my brother’s mail owl?”

Credence nods his head rapidly.  “I believe she was a tawny owl, endemic to Eurasian woodlands, and female, since she seemed rather large.”

Graves smiles, hanging his coat in the closet.  He takes the letter from Credence, noting the Graves’ family seal, so he was right, his brother’s letter has finally arrived.  He simultaneously dreads and looks forward to reading it.

“Anything else about her that you noticed, Credence?”  He asks, placing a hand on the boy’s waist, guiding him to the sitting room.  He collapses on the couch, patting the cushion beside him.  Credence sits, their knees touching slightly.

“I untied the letter from her leg, but she still wouldn’t leave, so I figured I had to give her something in return.”

Graves rests his arm along the back of the couch, body turned towards Credence, a grin pulls at the corners of his lips, threatening to become a full fledged smile.  “And, what did you give her?”

Credence looks to the window where Graves keeps a cookie jar with treats for visiting owls and pigeons.  “I gave her two,”  he says sheepishly,  “Since she seemed to have come from far away.  I hope that was alright?”

Graves slips a hand into Credence’s hair, fingers carding through the strands curling behind his ear.  “More than alright.”  Credence pushes back, happily taking the affection Graves gives him.  He’s such a smart, good boy, and Graves is so very proud of him.

“I have something for you, Credence,”  Graves waves his wand and summons the box from his overcoat.  “It’s a gift from my aurors,”  he says as the box lands in Credence’s lap.

Credence picks up the box like he holds a chest of gold in his hands, acting like he’s never received a gift in his life.  Knowing his history, he likely hasn’t.

Graves swears to make sure Credence does not go long without gifts, especially if it makes him as happy as he looks.  

Credence carefully peels the paper from the box, folding it into a neat square and setting it aside.  Reverentially, he runs a hand over the writing on the plain wood beneath.

“It has my name on it,”  he remarks wondrously.

Graves leans over.   _Credence Barebone_ is burnt into the wood with beautiful calligraphic strokes.  He wonders how many dragots his aurors spent on it.  If it was meant only for Credence, or if it also acts as an apology for Graves.   _So sorry for not noticing._

Credence slides open the lid, revealing a beautiful peacock quill with a glass nib, a bottle of ink, a notebook, as well as a few sheets of letter parchment.  Graves looks at Credence’s expression, startled to see moisture brewing in his eyes.  He seems lost for words, so Graves uses them for him.  

“Here.”  He folds open the box fully and lifts the lid, sliding it into a special groove, revealing a perfect writing desk with slots for ink, and extra quills should Credence want another, less gaudy one.

Credence’s throat clicks as he tries to speak.  Eventually, words come to him.  “Who?”

“Tina, you’ve met, but also Magdalena Lopez—she prefers Magda—and Rajani Devi.  You can write them thank you letters if you’d like.”  He pulls a single sheet of parchment, showing Credence how to place and avoid creasing it.  Shows him how to remove the nib from the quill for cleaning.  How to open the ink well, how to scrape mistakes off with a knife when the ink is dry.  

Credence listens attentively through it all, clutching the notebook to his chest, fingers tight around its edges.

“Now that you have a writing set, you can take notes of what you learn as you read.”  Graves taps the center of the notebook.  “I expect you to fill that with your observations and thoughts, as well as any questions you might have.”

“That won’t be a hardship, Percival.”

Graves nods.  “It’s up to you if you want me to read it or not, I won’t push you, and will only read what you want me to.  Your privacy is respected.  Does that sound fair?”

Credence dips his head.  “Yes, very much so.”

***

Tears stream down his cheeks as he reads his brother’s letter.

_Perce,_

_Ten years, and you send me a sodding letter.  Floo call me when you get the chance.  We’ll talk at length then._

_I cannot wait for you to meet Effie.  She must have somehow inherited your brazen stoicism, for I don’t know of any other ten year old girl who wouldn’t laugh when jumped by a puffskein!_

_Of course I forgive you, you big lump, you know me, I’m not vindictive enough to hold a grudge, unlike Professor Boot.  Remember the second year quidditch final when I accidentally hit a bludger at her head?  A month ago she sent me a howler claiming I caused her permanent brain damage.  The nerve!  Even the matron had said it was nothing more than a tap.  In front of my teammates too, I swear, the audacity of that woman!_

_I look forward to meeting this young man you’ve spoken so fondly about.  From what the papers tell me, you’ve been having quite the adventure._

_Your little brother (although, not so little anymore),_

_Rolls_

Graves laughs into the hand he has over his mouth.  Dashing away his tears, he folds the letter, and tucks it into his desk for safekeeping.

“Percival?”  Credence asks from the doorway, worry his his eyes, no doubt from seeing the wetness on his cheeks.  

[Tumblr link to art](http://iamonlydancing.tumblr.com/post/162255501547/art-for-chapters-one-to-four-of-as-fire-to-the-sun)

Credence slides into the room, walking closer in his socked feet.  He absolutely refuses to wear shoes in the house, saying Graves’ floor is too nice to drag New York City all over it.  Graves had been forced to relent, taking up Credence’s shoeless practice.  

He thinks the last person to see his shoeless feet had been Theseus, eight years ago.

Credence stops in front of Graves’ desk, hand outstretched, offering.  Graves reaches out and takes the hand, running his thumb along the back of Credence’s knuckles.  

“What’s wrong?”  Credence asks.

Graves shakes his head.  “Nothing’s wrong, I’m happy.”

“Because of the letter.”

“Because of the letter,”  Graves affirms,  “It was from my brother.”

Credence walks around the desk, to stand by his side.  Graves tugs him down so he sits balanced on the arm of his chair.  His hip presses warm into Graves’ shoulder.  “What did it say, if I might ask?”

Graves reaches into his desk and pulls out the letter, wordlessly handing it to Credence.  He draws circles on Credence’s knee as he reads.

“You had a falling out?”  He observes, handing it back.  Graves tucks it away safely.  “And now your relationship is better,”  Credence observes.

“That’s all Roland.  If he was more like me, personality wise, we wouldn’t speak until we were both dead in our graves.”

“You sent the letter first, Percival,” Credence helpfully points out.

Graves squeezes his knee.  “I hate to say I owe it to Grindelwald, but at least there’s one good thing that came from all the bad he did to us.”

“Two things,”  Credence says, and Graves feels a light finger trace the edge of his ear.  His breath catches in his throat.  Credence’s finger is cold.  He wants to capture his hands, hold them to his chest until they warm.  “Without him, I would have never met you.”

He turns his head to look at Credence, his finger skims from his ear, to his cheekbone, before pulling away.  His expression pensive, complicated.  

“Two things, then,”  Graves confirms.  With a gentle pat on the back, Credence hops off the chair, Graves standing after.  “Come now, let’s make dinner before we lose our heads and start calling Grindelwald a blessing in disguise.”

***

The dishes wash themselves as they sit at the small kitchen table, Credence with the writing set in front of him, Graves with a finger of bourbon in hand.  Seraphina had bought him the bottle for his fortieth birthday.  She gives him one every year, except this year.  His birthday had passed while he was locked in the trunk, and Grindelwald had enjoyed his birthday bourbon instead.

“Ma always said alcohol was the devil’s drink.”

Graves looks at Credence, seeing his eyes fixed on the glass.

“Want a sip?”  Graves offers, tilting the glass towards Credence.

“May I?”

“Please.”  Graves hands him the glass, cautioning,  “Be careful, it’s strong.”

Credence takes a small sip and promptly coughs.  His face twists in displeasure when he sets the glass back down, pushing it across the small table back to Graves.

He chuckles, and picks it up, taking another sip.  He must be imagining the faint hint of peppermint, but he saw Credence pop a candy from the altoids tin that always sits on the counter, so perhaps he isn’t.  

His ears burn from the implication.

“Stop laughing at me, Percival.”  Credence pouts, picking up his quill, returning to his thank-you letters.

“I would never,”  he says hoarsely.  Draining the glass in one gulp, he summons over the decanter for another—he wants the taste of mint gone from his lips.

He’s halfway through his second glass when he hears a loud knocking, coming from the front door.  He sets down his drink and meets Credence’s eyes across the table.  “Stay here,”  he instructs.

With his wand in hand, he walks to the door, socked feet thudding lightly on the wood.  Graves does not get visitors, he does not entertain, he does not host parties.  People do not come to see him.  He goes to see them.  Understandably, Graves is suspicious about whomever lies on the other side of that door.

He looks through the peephole and sees absolutely nothing.  With a blasting spell on the tip of his tongue, he opens it a crack.

“Young master Graves!  How happy Dolly is to see you!”  

Graves throws open the door at the familiar voice and crouches in front of the house elf, a wide grin spreading slow on his face.  

“I think I’m the happy one this time, Dolly.”  He pauses, frowning.  “Although, how many times do I have to tell you, you can drop the ‘young.’”

“But not the ‘master,’ sir?”

Graves rolls his eyes, tapping her lightly under the chin.  “Are you back, then?”

“After such a heartfelt letter?  How could I not!”  She walks into the brownstone, and he stands.  Looking at Graves from top to bottom, she seems to fixate on his feet.  Making a small noise of consideration, she kicks off her shoes, leaving them behind on the shoe stand.

He hears a noise, then turns to see Credence standing a bit down the hall, watching his interaction with Dolly.  Evidently he has not listened to Graves’ instruction to stay put.

Dolly peers around him.  Catching sight of Credence, she gasps.  Credence doesn’t seem to be faring any better.  He’s looking at Dolly like she’s a six foot tall hidebehind, and not a small, floppy-eared house elf.

Dolly shakes her head, muttering as she pushes past Graves, into the house.  “Dolly’s gone for months, and look what happens!  The young master gets a boy, and then doesn’t even feed him properly!  What a travesty, a horror!”  Dolly shrills as she strides right up to Credence, pinching his thigh.  He yelps, jumping a foot in the air.  “Skin and bones!”  She cries.

Graves quietly shuts the door as Dolly takes Credence by the hand, leading him to the kitchen while he helplessly goes along.  No doubt to stuff more food down his throat.  Credence sends him a wide-eyed look before disappearing around the corner, wordlessly begging Graves to come rescue him.

Leaning against the door, he looks down at the shoe stand.  There sits a selection of shiny oxfords and brogues, in two separate sizes, and one house elf sized pair of flapper dancing heels.  

Graves smiles.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next update will be on June 19th.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not only is there internet in the middle of bumfucknowhere, but the connection is damn good and there is absolutely nothing to do but hike, draw, and write. Sooo, early update!
> 
> FYI, I updated the last two drawings with colour, and they look a gazillion times better now, yay! So go back and check them out!

_Hands of ice, wet with blood, grab violently at his arm.  Thick fingers grip around his thin wrist, pulling him away from her.  He stumbles, tripping over the cobblestones, falling, and skinning his knees on the wet ground.  He bursts into terrified tears, crying for her to come pick him up again, soothe him, tell him everything is alright, but she cannot, and she never will again._

_The cruel hands dig into his skin, bones grinding together.  He screams, and is promptly slapped across the face, the force of it casting his head to the side._

_“Shut up, blood filth.”_

Credence opens his eyes.  He’s no longer standing on a cold, dark street.  Instead, he lies in his bedroom, tucked beneath the covers.  Pulling the sheets up to his nose, he inhales their soft lavender smell, trying to forget the stench of a shit clogged street, and the falling of rain.

Wrapping the covers around his body, he climbs out of bed as silently as possible.  

He hasn’t woken Percival this time, thankfully.  Credence both loves and hates when Percival comes to help when he hears him in the arms of a night terror.  Loves it, because seeing Percival, and the feeling of being cradled against his chest, chases away any and all of his fears.  Hates it, because it means he awakens Percival who, going by his sunken-in pallor and the dark circles about his eyes, needs even more sleep than Credence does.

The blanket trails along the floor as Credence walks to the kitchen.  He turns on a single light, then the stove, pulling the tea kettle and a mug from the cupboard.  Setting water to boil, he sits at the kitchen table, closing his eyes.

He remembers the day Percival brought him home.  

He had been deposited in the same chair, wearing Percival’s overcoat over his own clothes still ripped and burnt to shreds.  Back then Credence didn’t call him Percival, he was still Mr. Graves—along with all the associations that come with that name.  

Percival had boiled water—as Credence is now—and handed him a cup and saucer of black tea with a dab of honey.  

“Lemon?”  Percival had asked, sat opposite Credence, the moon high, shining in from the open balcony.

Credence recalls saying nothing, instead he had thought about that balcony.  Too small for anyone to stand on, but enough for a few empty planters, dried plants like corpses peeking from the soil.  

He could never imagine Mr. Graves with his hands buried in dirt, planting flowers, but he can easily see Percival doing that.  Perhaps Percival had done exactly that, but Mr. Graves had killed them with inattention.

Percival had taken his hand, just holding it between them as Credence sipped his tea, scared, confused, but most of all, wary.  Wary and silent as death.  The last words he had spoken were when he had told Percival he was nothing like Mr. Graves.  

Percival was not Mr. Graves, but he could still hurt Credence, all it could take are a few misplaced words to wound, things Percival didn’t even know.  At least, not until Credence explained.

Percival had sighed, squeezed Credence’s hand, then said, “My boy, if I am to care for you, like you deserve, we need to communicate.”

Credence had dropped the cup to the saucer, tea slopping over the edges.  He had pulled his hand from Percival’s grip, holding it cradled to his chest.  “Don’t call me that,”  he had whispered, voice high and terrified.

Percival had frowned.  “Call you what?”

“ _That_ ,”  Credence had said, not wanting to repeat the words, not wanting to hear them again, or speak them again, or see them again coming from those lips.  He had mumbled, under his breath, “He used to call me that.”  

Inexplicable reasoning—they were just two words.  On their own, harmless.  Together, devastating.

He had felt Percival’s gaze on his head, but he had refused to look away from the cup of tea, still steaming, bone china chipped at the edge.  

“I promise, Credence, I won’t ever call you that again.”  

Credence had been surprised at the level of sincerity in Percival’s voice.  He did not sound as condescending, or mocking as Mr. Graves—Grindelwald.  

Credence had looked up and met Percival's gaze and had been amazed at what he saw within his eyes.  At the depth of feeling one person could project.  His eyes were not cold, Credence could not even imagine them cold, it did not seem possible.  They glittered like the night sky, and Credence had felt warm, protected.  

Like he had finally found a place he could belong, and it was within the hold of Percival’s eyes.

The kettle steams, and Credence hurries to take it off the stove before it whistles.  With tea leaves measured in the same bone china cup, chip and all, Credence pours steaming water over top.  The malty-clove scent of black tea, rises in the steam and Credence inhales it like it’s manna from heaven.

He turns around, cup of tea in hand, and startles when he sees Dolly sitting in his chair.

Her large eyes study Credence like he is the greatest mystery of all to be uncovered.  Credence doesn’t think he’s mysterious at all.  He’s just a boy trying to learn magic, dreaming about things he would rather not relive—hence the tea.

“Tea won’t help you sleep,”  she says.

“I know,”  Credence says, sitting down in Percival’s chair.

“The young master used to get nightmares, after the war.”  Dolly says, looking seriously at Credence, the moon reflected in her large eyes.  “He used to sit in his study and refuse to go back to sleep, no matter that he had to work in the morning.”

“I don’t have a job,”  Credence mumbles into his cup.

She huffs, amused, “Then Dolly supposes you can stay up.”

The silence stretches between them, and Credence thinks of something to break it.  It isn’t uncomfortable per se, but it is heavy.

“Dolly used to keep a small greenhouse on the roof—somewhat for the young master’s potions—but mainly because it’s nice to have something green in the midst of all the brick and concrete, don’t you agree, Credence?”

He nods, wondering if it was Dolly who maintained the planters on the balcony, not Percival.  They’re gone now.  Gone long before Dolly returned.  Percival had removed them.

“Would you like to see it?  Dolly doubts that awful man thought to care for it after Dolly’s dismissal.  It’s probably all overgrown, but with a tad bit of work, we could get it back to its original state.”

“Now?”  Credence asks, nervously.  He doesn’t think the middle of the night is the right time for gardening.

“Of course,”  Dolly grins, her hooked nose wriggling,  “The moondew must be blooming, it really is beautiful, Dolly can’t wait to show you!”

She wraps long, cold fingers around Credence’s wrist, tugging him to his feet.  Taking him up the stairs to the second floor where the bedrooms are, she pulls him past Percival’s bedroom, to another set of stairs.  The third floor is closed off, and they go up another level, pushing against a door at the top.  

The night air is frigid when he steps out, bare feet freezing against the tiled roof, but he’s felt colder, wandering the streets handing out pamphlets for Ma.  Wrapping the blanket tighter around himself, he follows after Dolly.

He can see the tops of other buildings, and in the distance, shining lights sparkling, then the pitch-black block of Central Park.  The Hudson lies on the horizon, a freezing breeze rolling off it, raising goose pimples on his skin.

Dolly stands in front of a hut, no longer than a Model-T, but taller than him.  Panels of glass reflect the moon’s shining brilliance, even through the layer of dust and grime.  Dolly snaps her fingers, and suddenly the glass is as clean as a freshly waxed floor.  A wooden frame supports the panels, and Credence thinks he sees some sort of vine growing on the inside, suckers clinging to the glass.

He’s waved forward, the small door held open for him.  Ducking through, he’s is hit in the face with a wall of heat and humidity.  It clings to his skin, moisture sliding down his neck.

“Good,”  Dolly says,  “The charm is still holding up.”

“Charm?”  Credence asks, wiping a bead of sweat from his brow.  He doesn’t remove the blanket, seeing too many plant tendrils and feelers, even in the weak moonlight.  He’d rather not feel them on his skin.

Warm soil pushes under his toes as he walks in, looking around.  There are small tri-petal white flowers blooming on a shelf—the only plants giving off any light.  Credence assumes they are moondew.

“To keep the soil moist, the air warm.  The plants like it, and it’s easier than maintaining a stove.”

“This is beautiful.”  He runs a gentle finger along a petal, watching in fascination as it seems to glow even brighter.  “What is it for?”

Dolly taps a finger under her chin.  “Dolly believes it’s used in The Draught of Living Death.”

Credence turns back to look at her, eyes wide, even the name sounds impressive.  “What does that do?”

Dolly hops from an overturned pot, onto the counter, sitting right at Credence level, legs swinging.  “Young master used it during undercover missions.  It simulates death, slows the heartbeat, makes a wizard halt breath.”

“Undercover as a dead body?”  Credence asks in disbelief, he doesn’t know how that could possibly be an effective disguise.

“You’d be surprised, Credence, a corpse attracts much less attention in some places than a wizard does, especially during a war,”  Dolly says wisely.  

Credence shivers, turning away from the benign looking plant.

“Although, I imagine he’s famous enough by now that disguises like that won’t work.  All of New York knows about Percival Graves, now.”  She hops off the counter, holding out her hand.  “Come along, Credence.”

“Can I come back later?”  He asks, wanting to see all the other plants.  Taking Dolly’s offered hand, they leave the warmth for the night that seems even colder than before.

“Do you mean earlier?”  She giggles, squeezing his hand as she latches the door shut behind them, “Dolly thinks the night is already as late as it can go, any more and it only gets earlier.”

A warm voice chuckles.  “Come now, don’t tease him, Dolly.”

Percival leans on the wall beside a rather large nook in the brownstone.  An owl slumbers within, and Credence is surprised that he never noticed the bird before.  Percival wears a simple velvet robe and thick woolen socks, pajama pants fluttering in the wind.  He looks warm and cozy and Credence wants nothing more than to be wrapped in his arms.  

“Young master!  Teasing is Dolly’s favourite pastime!”

Percival walks to Credence.  Lifting his hands, Percival adjusts the blanket, tucking it even tighter around his shoulders.  His hands are hot when they press against his neck for a short second.  Credence’s breath hitches.  “You’re incorrigible, Dolly.”

She smiles wide and winks.  Snapping her fingers, she disappears with a sharp crack.

“Where did she go?”  Credence asks, looking around.  He didn’t know house elves could apparate.

Percival shrugs, leading Credence back into the house.  “Wherever she wants to, I don’t keep tabs on her, especially not when it’s her time off.”

“She showed me the greenhouse,”  Credence says.

“I noticed,”  Percival quirks a brow at Credence’s feet, dirty and covered in soil.  He blushes to his ears.  He cannot believe he carried dirt into Percival’s house, especially when he was the one who said their shoes were ruining the floors.

Percival simply pulls out his wand and waves them at Credecene’s feet.  Suddenly they’re as clean as if they’ve never been dirtied.  

“Can’t sleep?”  Percival asks.

Credence nods his head.

“Do you want to read with me?”

Credence nods again.  Percival guides him down the flight of stairs, the only sound, the creaking of their steps on old wood.  Percival lights the fireplace in his room, then climbs into his bed, patting the sheets beside him.  

With his eyes cast down, Credence climbs in, settling under the covers.  Percival has a sheaf of papers spread out on his lap—work—he answers when Credence asks.

Credence flips to his bookmark and begins reading.  

He doesn’t remember falling asleep when he wakes in the morning, Percival missing from the bed.  Hearing the shower running from down the hall, he walks down the stairs to the kitchen.

He finds Dolly with ingredients floating about the air, making breakfast.  She hands Credence two cups of tea with a smile, and he goes back up the stairs with them.  The shower has shut off by now, so Credence knocks on the door, opening it when he hears Percival telling him to enter.

A thick cloud of steam hits him, and he finds Percival looking into a mirror cleaned of condensation, a robe tied about his waist, shaving foam on his chin.  Water drips from his hair, pushed to one side.  The cut appears even more severe while wet, and the strands glisten, trailing down his cheekbone.

He smiles at Credence in the mirror and picks up the safety razor, quirking a brow, wordlessly asking for help.  Credence puts the tea cups on a nearby shelf, and takes the razor from Percival.

Tilting his head back, as he did the first time he helped him shave, and the handful of times after that, Credence makes the first stroke.

His own straight razor, given to him by Percival, sits in the vanity.  Hair is growing in on his chin and upper lip, darkening his pale skin.  He’ll take a shower and shave after Percival leaves for the day.

When Credence is done, and Percival has rubbed aftershave onto his skin, smelling as spicy, as wonderful, as ever.  He leans over and presses a gentle kiss to Credence’s cheek, lips so faint he barely feels them, but feel them he does.  

“Thank you, sweet Credence.”

Percival takes his tea from the shelf, and leaves Credence behind—a hand pressed to his cheek, the smell of aftershave ingrained in his senses, skin burning hot like the sun.  

He can barely breathe.

***

Dolly has him elbows deep in soil, digging up bulbs, when he hears a soft buzzing drift by his ear.  A rather fat bumblebee lands on a waving tentacle that Dolly warned him to stay far away from, lest he lose a finger.

The plant ignores the bee as it dips its furry little body around in an flower, pollen rubbing onto its tiny body.

“A bee is the only creature a venomous tentacula will not eat,”  Dolly says, noticing the source of his distraction,  “It knows it needs a pollinator.”

“How can it tell that it’s a bee, not a fly?”  Credence asks curiously, as the bee flies out the open greenhouse window, and the tentacula’s spiky vines go back to waving threateningly.

Dolly chuckles.  “That’s the question of the year, Credence.”

Credence reminds himself to consult his herbology textbook, just as another plant flings a white bean in his direction.  It bounces off his head, clattering on the floor.

“Oh!”  Dolly exclaims,  “The sopophorous beans are ready!”

Credence cannot help but feel like he is like a bee, and the obscurus, a tentacula.  For how long will the darkness stay dormant, while he goes about living his life?  Locked tight inside him where it cannot harm anyone else.  Perhaps until the time Credence is no longer useful, until he can no longer gives it what it needs—what it feeds so greedily on.

What happens when he’s no longer in pain, when guilt no longer sits heavy on his shoulders?  Will the smoke fade into nothingness?  Credence doubts it, nothing has ever come easy in his life.  The darkness won’t ever leave him be.  He is it, and it is he, they’re symbiotic.  

Just like the bee and the tentacula.

***

Credence has his nose buried in a book when Percival returns home.  He’s so absorbed in his reading he doesn’t even notice until Percival stands right in front of him, giving him the start of his life.  He can almost hear Dolly’s laughter in the background.

Percival smiles apologetically, taking the seat across from him in front of the unlit fireplace.  The days are warming, so there’s no need to light it, Credence simply likes the atmosphere.  Everything from a painting of a vase of tulips lightly bobbing in an imaginary breeze, a delicate pattern of red and black feathered on their petals, to a small collection of framed photographs along the mantel.  

Credence thinks his favorite is one of a kindly woman with Percival’s dark brows, standing beneath the same tulip painting.  

She had winked at Credence the first time he saw her.  All the other photographs stare benignly back, posed and emotionless, even as they move.  Only the one of the woman, Percival’s mother, Credence imagines, has life.  Or at least, some form of sentience.

There’s another photograph of a younger Percival with his arm thrown over a younger boy.  They look too much alike not to be siblings.  Percival still appears as serious as ever, but when he looks at the other boy, his eyes sparkle with fondness.  Credence hopes Percival will introduce them, he wants to meet the man that can bring forth such emotion in him.

However, the frame is tucked behind all the other ones, covered in a layer of dust, so perhaps Credence will never end up meeting him.   

“It’s Friday, would you like to go out for dinner?”  Percival asks, one leg crossed over the other.  “I usually give Dolly Friday night off to spend time with her friends.  But, if you don’t want to eat out, we can cook instead,”  Percival offers with a kind smile.

Credence bookmarks his page and places the closed book on the side table.  

He finished all the books Percival bought him a few days ago.  Now, he’s just re-reading the ones he loved.  The Anishinaabe text is a favourite of his.  It was Percival’s, and he leant it to Credence before he purchased the other books.  

There’s an inscription on the title page, written by the author, that fascinates him.  

‘ _Graves, for when you realize a wand doesn’t make a wizard, —B. Tremblay._ ’  

He wonders who B. Tremblay is, and if Percival keeps in touch with him, since Credence dearly wants to know more about his writing.  Every other text Credence has read claims that magic with a wand is the be all and end all—that childhood wandless magic is simply something children grow out of.  Tremblay’s writing makes Credence question a lot of the information in his other books.    

“I’d like that,”  he says quietly.

“I know a nice quiet place,”  Percival says, “There’s a live singer, but it’s still not nearly as flamboyant as other establishments.”

Credence nods his assent, and Percival rises, offering his hand.  

“We can floo in.”

Credence slides his hand into Percival’s.  The skin on the top is soft like a petal, but his palm is rough with calluses.  Percival squeezes, thumb rubbing along his knuckle.  Credence never wants to let go.

The floo trip is not nearly as unpleasant as the first time he traveled by it, but he still manages to get ash in his hair, even when Percival emerges from the fireplace as put together as ever.  Percival takes one look at him, chuckles, then waves his wand, disappearing the ash from his waistcoat.

The restaurant they’re in is all warm wood and brick, a bar at the far end, tended to by a goblin dressed to the nines.  Round, two-seater tables fill the space, ending at a spacious dance floor and empty stage.  Percival pulls him over to an empty table, and they take a seat.  Menus float over to them, and Credence plucks his out of the air as Percival does.

His eyes bug out of his head when he sees the rich foods listed, from expensive cuts of steak to _oysters_ , Credence does not know what to order.  He regrets learning the worth of wizarding currency.  Even the thought of Percival spending this much money to feed him one meal, nearly has him in vapours.

“The porterhouse is good,”  Percival says, considering, like he’s voicing aloud his own thoughts.

Credence looks for the cheapest item on the menu.

“Can I get the potato skins?”  He asks, head bent over.

“Credence?”  Percival asks.  Credence glances up to meet his eyes over their menus.  “Sweet Credence, whatever you want you can get, please, for me?”

Credence swallows, and looks back at the menu, picking the cheapest item among the entrees.  “The roast beef?”

“Thank you, Credence.”  Percival closes his menu and seems to address the thin air.  “The roast beef and porterhouse.”  The menu pops out of existence in Credence’s hand, startling him.

“Would you like something to drink?”  Percival offers,  “I know you don’t enjoy hard liquor, but they carry gigglewater here, and that might be more to your taste, knowing how you like your tea.”

“It’s sweet?”

“Very.”  Percival grins.  “It also has an interesting side effect, if you’re interested?”

Credence sees the excitement on Percival’s face, and cannot deny him.  He nods.

While Percival stands at the bar, Credence hunches his shoulders, watching as a woman in a long flowing gown walks on stage.  A man sits at a table near the front, and the moment he sees her, he dives at her feet, but is knocked back a few feet.  A wavering blue field, which must be a protective ward of some kind, repels him.  Most of the men in the restaurant, as well as a few women fixate on her.  Her smile is knowing and coy, as if she basks in the attention, singing a slow song in a melodic language.

She is quite a lovely woman, but there’s no need for her audience to prostrate themselves at her feet like she is a god.  It’s blasphemous, what some of them are doing.  

She seems to have cast a spell on their senses.

“She’s beautiful, isn’t she?”  Percival returns, placing a stemmed glass in front of him, a tumbler of amber alcohol for himself.

“Why are people acting like that?”  Credence points to a man who doesn’t appear to notice that his elbow rests squarely on his steak as he stares, transfixed, at the woman.

Percival sips from his drink, leaning back in his chair, wood creaking.  “Do you not feel the same desire?”

Credence dips his brows, and he scolds.  “Percival, I am in full possession of my senses.”

“My mistake.”  Percival’s lips quirk in amusement.  

Credence makes the connection.

“She’s veela,”  he says.

“Yes.”  Percival taps the tip of his shoe against Credence’s ankle, face turned to watch the singer, chin propped on the heel on his palm.  

Veela are incredibly attractive to people who have the potential to desire them, but Credence isn’t attracted to her.  He can appreciate her beauty, but she stirs nothing in him.  Despair swirls in his chest and moisture pricks at his eyes.  He bites his lip, picking up the drink Percival bought him, taking a sip.

[Tumblr link to art](http://iamonlydancing.tumblr.com/post/162255501547/art-for-chapters-one-to-four-of-as-fire-to-the-sun)

A giggle escapes his throat, and Percival’s gaze whips back to him.  Credence stares back, flabbergasted.  “What was that?”

Percival grins.  “One day, years ago, Magda spiked the bourbon in my decanter with gigglewater.  She meant for me to drink it, but she chose to do it the day before a delegation from Bombay was set to arrive.  She, of course, did not know this.”

“What happened?”  Credence asks.

“They drank it, every single one of them.  I swear, there is nothing more mortifying than an older gentleman with a neatly trimmed moustache and spectacles giggling while wearing a completely serious expression.”  Percival leans closer, his tale enticing Credence to do the same.  “And you want to know what the worst part was?”  

“What?”  Credence asks, enthralled.

“He continued drinking it.  All of them did.  Tough aurors they were—thought we were insulting them, but they drank it anyway,”  Percival says, shaking his head.  “We were discussing the illegal, black-market sale of occamy eggs, but every so often one of the witches or wizards would burst into pealing laughter.  Most often at an inopportune moment.  It was painfully awkward.”

“What happened to Auror Lopez?”  He can’t imagine that she got away with anything less than a suspension.  Credence hates to think of what his Ma would have done to him if he tried something similar.

Percival smiles slyly.  “The worst punishment I could think of.  Tina was supposed to present our report to the delegation, but instead, I brought Magda in to do it.  She had to keep a completely straight expression, or risk offending the Indians, all the while they were laughing intermediately during her speech.”  Percival taps a finger on his jaw.  “What did she call it?  ‘The worst experience of her life?’”

Credence giggles, this time without the aid of the drink.

“Let’s just say, she never pulled a stunt like that again.  I made her apologize and explain herself, and she did so willingly.”

Percival is so kind, and such a wonderful leader, Credence cannot help but admire him and want to make him proud.  He imagines that the men and woman he commands cannot help but feel the same.  

Credence reaches out and lightly touches the back of Percival’s hand as it lies on the table.  He’s so charismatic and strong, Credence feels so much for him.  Percival folds their hands together and sends him a private smile that has his heart racing in his chest.  

Couples dance in front of the stage to a quiet song the veela hums, twirling around each other.  Two women dance with each other, pressed close together.  A hand low on a back, another on a shoulder, two palms pressed close.  The women’s dresses swirl in their waltz, locked onto each other, captivated in their dance.  The song ends and their foreheads touch, looking into each other’s eyes in a way that is the opposite of platonic.  

Credence tears his gaze away.

His Ma would have shouted.  She would have called them vicious, ugly words, and Credence would have sunk in his seat while she raved, hoping not to catch her ire.  His Ma would have demanded their expulsion from the restaurant, then their arrest.  

He wonders why no one shouts for it now.

Regardless of how others might feel, Credence thinks they look beautiful in their sin.  He just wishes he could be brave in his.

He selfishly holds Percival’s hand—his attention, his faith—and doesn’t ask him to dance.  When their food arrives, he eats it and enjoys it, but dearly misses the weight of Percival’s hand.  

***

“Would you like to walk home?”  Percival asks, placing several coins on the table, coat folded in the crook of his arm.

Credence nods his assent and follows Percival outside the restaurant.  They emerge on fifth avenue, arc lamp flooding the dark street with bright light.  A lone automobile races down the street, nearly hitting a pedestrian who waves his fist threateningly.  The automobile turns a corner and disappears.

Percival waves his wand, whispering a notice-me-not charm over them, but it doesn’t appear to work as his brow dips in frustration and his hand shakes.

Credence wraps his fingers around Percival’s wrist, steadying his hand from the tremors that grip it.  He smiles in thanks, then performs the spell.  It takes, and a light blue film sparkles about them, before dissipating.  Percival takes Credence’s hand and places it on the arm not holding his coat.  They walk side by side, close enough that every so often Credence’s hip grazes Percival’s.

The Metropolitan Museum stretches tall and grand as they walk nearby.  Credence turns his head to look.  He remembers coming here every so often to hand out flyers.  The walk would take hours, and Ma would be angry if he came back late, but he couldn’t resist.  

He used to imagine walking up those stairs, to see all the wonders gathered within.  He could have done it, the museum does not charge admission, but he knew if he walked in, Ma would know.  She would know, and she would beat him black and blue and he would have deserved it.  

She used to say art was the greatest untruth, the greatest evil in the world.  Why should people paint, when they have photography?  The devil guides the hand of artists.

“Would you like to go in?”  Percival asks in his ear, breath hot along the lobe, as he offers Credence such beautiful sin.

“Yes,”  Credence whispers.  Ma must have been wrong about art, just as she must have been wrong about inversion.  Art is too beautiful to be anything but a gift from God, just as the love of those two women was too beautiful to be anything but holy.

Or perhaps this just his way of justifying his sins.

Two security guards stand at the front entrance, talking.  One swings a set of keys around a finger.  They’re closing the museum, it’s too late for them to enter.  Credence is about to open his mouth to express this, but Percival pulls him past the doors without a word.  The notice-me-not hides them.

His feet skid across the granite floors as he stares in awe about him.  The space is cavernous, yet he cannot seem to find words to describe it.  It’s simply everything that his Ma would have hated.

He _loves_ it.

The door shuts, a loud click behind them, the silence echoing.  Percival smiles like he’s a young truant, instead of the Director of Magical Security.  It’s playful, and Credence’s heart swells.  “What do you want to see?”

“Paintings?”  Credence asks, unsure.  Thinking of the dark woodcuts his Ma used for the pamphlets, he says, “Something colourful.”

Percival moves, linking their fingers together.  “I know just the artist.”

Percival pulls him through the empty corridors and it feels like something clandestine.  They aren’t meant to be here, and the echoing of their feet, the dimmed lights, and Percival’s lumos leading the way, only emphasizes their trespassing.

As they walk through the empty halls, Credence sees things he has only previously imagined from Ma’s stories.  

Sinful paintings of delightfully pink flesh.  Entwined bodies twisted together, immortalized in porcelain.  Marble statues of naked men and woman, muscles strained and genitals bared.  

Credence’s hand sweats—he wonders if Percival has noticed.

The gallery Percival takes him to hosts small paintings in gilded frames that attempt to outshine the artwork they display, but are unable.  Colours and bold brushstrokes draw Credence in.  

Colours that he has never seen before spin in his eyes.  They’re colours he will likely never see again on the streets of dreary New York.

Percival stands beside him, a thumb distractedly running over his knuckles.  Credence reads something sad in his eyes as he looks at the paintings, and he doesn’t understand how Percival could feel sadness in the face of such wondrous beauty.

“I love Van Gogh’s work,”  Percival says,  “During the war, when I was in Paris, I purchased a book of correspondences between him and his brother, Theo, at a no-maj shop.  They were collected and published by his sister-in-law after their deaths.”

“What were they about?”  Credence asks, as they sit on the bench in the center of the room.

“Everything.”  Percival smiles, remnicinet.  “From everyday correspondences, to sketches, to praises and encouragement, to fears and hopes for the future.  They told each other everything.  They were so close that after Van Gogh died, his brother followed only six months later.  His wife had said he died of a broken heart.”

“They loved each other,”  Credence remarks, wondering if his life would have been different if he had that kind of relationship with his family.

“They did,”  Percival sighs, “The letters helped me realize I made a grievous mistake in my own relationship with my brother.”

Credence wants to ask, but he know it isn’t his place to do so.  So he simply squeezes Percival’s hand, saying, “You’ve apologized to him at least.”  Credence cannot imagine that whatever he did, it was as horrible as he claims.  Percival is too kind to knowingly hurt someone he loves.

Percival shakes his head.  “It took me ten years, Credence, eight of those years I knew I was in the wrong, but I still never admitted it.  I was too stubborn.  What if either of us had died in the war?  What if, Merlin forbid, Roland or his wife had died, and he willed his daughter’s care to me?  I would have had to explain to her that I was the reason they lived alone in Scotland, not in New York with their family.”

The letter from Percival’s brother mentioned an Effie—a niece, born ten years ago, right at the time of their falling out.

“And all because I placed the law before my own family.”

Credence makes the connection, and he finally understands what Percival did.  

A few of the books Percival bought him went into long details about Rappaport’s law.  How it was established because of a massive breach in the Statute of Secrecy, how it explicitly forbids the fraternisation of wizards and no-majs.

“Your brother married a no-maj.”

Percival tucks a stray curl behind Credence’s ear.  “You’re too smart.”

His heart skips a beat.

“He did, and I disowned him for it.  They moved across the ocean when I threatened his wife with obliviation.  I didn’t even know she had been pregnant until curiosity sent me looking into their records, after the war.  Frankly, I’m surprised Roland even mentioned Effie in his letter.  I thought he would have chosen to punish me for putting the law before my family.”

“But you didn’t obliviate her, Percival, you let them leave.”

“I would have if they chose to stay,”  Percival spits out angrily, not at Credence, but at himself.  

Credence easily recognizes that breed of self-hatred for what it is.

Yet, he recoils at the connection he makes.  How can he possibly assume to think that Percival’s pain is anything like Credence’s own?  His is born of sinful desire, while Percival’s spawned when he lost his brother.  

Percival makes an apologetic noise, likely thinking it was the vehemence in his tone that made Credence pull back.  The anger they both associate with Grindelwald.  

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have raised my voice.  It’s just… I’m not as good of a man as you think I am, Credence.”

Credence is shaking his head before Percival even finishes speaking.  “No one but God is all good.  People make mistakes, and they hurt others, knowingly or even unknowingly.  Goodness is when you realize you’ve made a mistake and you make amends for it.  You did that, you apologized for your mistake and you were forgiven.”

Percival looks at him, eyes roaming over his face, so intense Credence has to tear his gaze away.

“What good have I done to deserve you, sweet Credence?”  Percival asks, nothing short of wonder in his tone.  

Credence asks himself the same question.  Percival gives him so much, but Credence gives nothing in return.

“You saved me,”  he says,  “You were there when I was looking for him.  If I had found him in your place, I would have begged him to take me back, instead I found you.  You took me in.  You cared for me all these months.  You’ve given me everything—a life, a home—and now you ask me what good you’ve done?”  Credence gathers every bit of bravery he possesses and tilts his head to look at Percival, their eyes locking.  “Everything, Percival.  You’ve given me everything.”

***

Percival tucks him into bed that night.  With a soft kiss pressed to his forehead, he pulls the covers over Credence’s chest.  

“Would you mind if I sit with you for a while?”  Percival asks.  His voice is nervous, but there's no reason for it.  Credence could deny him nothing.

“Yes, please.”  Credence shifts over, making room for him on the bed.

Percival settles in, back against the headboard, a hand tangled in Credence's hair.

“You finished your readings, haven't you?”

“Yes.”

“Then tomorrow I’ll take you to choose a wand, how does that sound?”  Percival offers, his voice excited.

Credence shuts his eyes, settling into the soft pillow, the feeling of fingers combing through his hair, drowsing him.  He thinks about the inscription B. Tremblay wrote to Percival.  

’ _A wand doesn’t make a wizard.’_  

He wonders if he even needs a wand.  According to Tremblay, Anishinabe wizards were performing wandless magic for thousands of years before Europeans arrived and suppressed their version of magic, forcing them to adopt latin-based spells and wands.

Wands are fickle things—as far as Credence is concerned.  They’re supposed to remain loyal to their wizard, yet when Grindelwald stole Percival’s wand, it readily betrayed him.  Even now it’s temperamental, Credence can see it in Percival's frustration when the simplest spells fail.

Wands are thought to be somewhat sentient, so what’s to say they don’t have their own undefinable goals outside their wizard’s well being?  

Tremblay claims that before the arrival of Europeans, Anishinabe wizards did not use wands because they did not need them.  Most channeled their magic through themselves, and didn’t rely on a quasi-sentient stick to do it for them.    

“Alright,”  Credence agrees reluctantly.

He doesn’t know how to explain to Percival his disinterest in using a wand, when all but one of the books he’s read so far say that a wand is his next step into the world of magic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: The MET did not have a Van Gogh in their collection in the 1920s, as far as I can tell. I believe the earliest one that was donated to them was given in the 50s. The painting that Credence and Graves look at is Oleanders, which was donated in 1962. If you're interested, you can read more about it on the MET website.
> 
> The letters between Vincent van Gogh and Theo van Gogh are readily available on the internet. They're sweet, and at times heartbreaking, but are really worth the read. 
> 
> Next update June 21st, or alternatively, whenever I feel the next chapter is ready.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I forgot to mention where I got the title of this fic. It's from a song, as typical of most of my fics. Specifically, Sufjan Stevens' Drawn to the Blood. I'm mentioning it now since I'm using the title as a line of dialogue in this chapter. 
> 
> It is the most Credence song ever, and I couldn't resist.

Credence stands in front of his closet, anxiety clawing at his chest.  Percival is taking him to work today, and he has no idea what to wear.  

He doesn’t want to embarrass Percival by wearing colours or fabrics that do not match, but he also doesn’t want to just wear black.  The last time he was at MACUSA headquarters, he wore an all black outfit—nevermind that it was half burnt and falling off his body.  

The last thing he wants is Percival’s colleagues remembering him as that boy so desperate to find Mr. Graves, even after he had been betrayed.

He wants to look like a wizard in his own right, but a wizard in his own right would know what to wear, and he hasn’t the slightest idea.

“Credence?”  Percival calls, knocking on his door,  “Can I come in?”

Credence bites his bottom lip.  He might as well, they need to leave soon.  He answers an affirmative and Percival walks in, dressed as well as ever, all the while Credence still stands in his underthings.

Credence must look pathetic because Percival takes one look at him, then quickly casts his gaze to the wardrobe, red high on his cheeks like he is ashamed on his behalf.  “Oh, I see you don’t know what to wear,”  Percival states, and Credence feels even more miserable.

“I’m sorry,”  he whispers under his breath.

“It’s no problem, when I was your age I relied on the house elves to put my clothes out for me, I was helpless.  Dolly will help you, you need only ask.”

“I want to learn.”

“And you will, Credence, but it will happen over time.”  Percival reaches into the wardrobe and grabs a few things off their hangers—beige trousers, white shirt, a deep brown waistcoat, and matching suspenders.  “Put these on.”

Credence does as instructed, remembering that the suspenders go under the waistcoat at the last moment.  Percival rummages around in a drawer, emerging with a rolled tie, red as bright as an apple.  He loops it around Credence’s neck, but makes him tie the silk himself.  

He only gets it wrong two times before he knots it to Percival’s satisfaction.  

The tie is smoothed under the waistcoat, collar pinned, and Credence finally looks in the mirror, hardly recognizing his own reflection.  The hollows of his cheeks have filled during the months he’s been living with Percival—even though the dark circles under his eyes are as prominent as ever.  He still has nightmares, sometimes about Grindelwald, sometimes about a man he barely remembers but wishes he didn’t remember at all.

Percival leads him out of the brownstone with a hand at the small of his back, and together, they apparate to the Woolworth building.

“Director,”  a man with hair combed sharply to the side greets as Percival walks through the revolving door.  He seems to double take at Credence slipping in after, but his gaze politely moves back to Percival.  “The President would like to see you.”

Percival purses his lips, nodding sharply.  Pulling Credence aside, he says, “I was hoping to work in my office, but if Seraphina is summoning me, it must be important.”

Credence’s gaze shifts, out the revolving door to the busy street beyond, visibly deflating.  “Do you want me to go home?”  He wouldn’t mind, he could work with Dolly in the greenhouse.  Even though after last night’s excursion on the town, Credence would rather spend even more time outside with Percival.  He might be developing a bit of cabin fever sitting in the house all day long.

“By Merlin, of course not!”  Percival exclaims, before his brow furrows, and he says in a much quieter tone,  “Unless you want to go home.  I haven’t brought you here too soon, have I?”

“No, I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?”  Percival asks, worry heavy in his tone.  “I don’t mind if you say yes, MACUSA can be a bit terrifying, I know.”

Credence smiles, offering reassurance.  “I’m only sad that we won’t be able to spend the day together.”

Percival’s eyes crinkle in the corners.  He chuckles, lightly tweaking Credence’s nose.  “Come on, then.  You can read in my office, there’s a rather comfortable couch that I’m ashamed to say I’ve slept on more times than I can count.”

Percival has never stayed overnight at work since Credence has been living with him.  Perhaps it’s because Credence is waiting at home for him—or more likely—he hasn’t been working as much as before.

Credence knows Percival is suffering.  He can see it in minute ticks—things Percival doesn’t want anyone to see.  How he sometimes cannot perform the easiest spells, how his hand shakes whenever he holds his razor.  It’s much more than physical trauma—his injuries by Grindelwald healed weeks ago.

Credence knows only a little bit about shell shock.  He used to see veterans living on the streets, arms clutched around their bodies, jumping at the slightest noise.  Percival fought in the Great War.  His imprisonment could have reawakened old traumas and fostered new ones.

Percival settles him in his office before leaving for his summons by the President.  

He tells Credence to keep himself entertained, pulling books from a shelf that he thinks he might like, stacking them on his desk.  He also warns him to avoid another cabinet filled with what appear to be cursed magical objects.  With all of that in mind, Credence settles in for a long wait.

He’s at MACUSA to register for a wand permit, but Percival needs to sign off on it since he is technically Credence’s guardian, so he imagines he’ll be here for a while.

Passing the time with a book on American wizarding law, Credence flips through it distractedly, his mind occupied with thoughts of the wand that will choose him today.  The stack of books teeters dangerously on the edge of Percival’s desk, one small push and it might topple to the ground.  Credence closes the book he isn’t reading and puts it to the side.

If he performed some wandless magic, he might be able to convince Percival to put wand shopping off for at least another day.  

There’s just something so final about tying himself to a wand.  He knows that once he uses one, he won’t be able to do wandless magic again for a long time.  It’s what happens to children after they get their first wand, suddenly they’re unable to perform the kind of magic they were able to do before.

Not that Credence has been doing wandless magic, no matter how much he wants to.

Newt warned told him not to try, wrote to him and said that it might interfere with the obscurus.  Credence doesn’t know how that could possibly be true.  The obscurus is controlled by his emotions, not by whether he might use a wand or not.

Fixing his eyes on the stack, he forms an image in his mind of it falling.  Tries to picture it as clearly as possible.  A small invisible shove, pushing it over the precipice.  He presses his mind forward, strains his eyes staring.  He _wills_ it to be.

Nothing happens.

Sighing in frustration, he rises up from the couch.  With his hands on his hips, he glares at the stack.  Once again, pressing his will upon the books—exactly as magic is described in most of his textbooks—he tries to make them fall.  

Again, the books don’t move an inch.

Credence pouts, disappointed.

He needs to take a break from Percival’s office.  There were chores enough to do at home, especially with Dolly there keeping his idle hands busy.  He needs to take a walk, and most importantly, he needs to find a bathroom.  

Which, as it turns out, is easier said than done.

He’s in a long corridor that looks all too much like the last one he was in, before he realizes he’s completely and utterly lost.  Ten minutes ago, the need to find a bathroom was a small annoyance, now it’s a pressing need, made even worse by the fact that he’s surrounded by witches and wizards sending him inquisitive looks.

He wishes he was brave enough to ask someone for help.  

Dodging around the people filling the halls, he ducks his head and resolutely doesn’t meet anyone’s eye.  He nearly runs into someone, and they yell at him to watch where he’s going.

Credence has no idea what to do, but he’s tempted to find a dark corner to hide away.  Forget his full bladder, it won’t matter if he cannot _breathe_.

He is going to bring shame to Percival, he just knows it.

“Oh sweetie, come here.”  Someone takes his arm, and Credence’s first instinct is to shake off their grip and run far in the opposite direction, but when he looks up he sees someone he recognizes.

The woman who stood beside Tina, when he first appeared in Percival’s office, smiles at him with kindness in her grey eyes.  She had comforted him when he had been scared, had touched him like he wasn’t disgusting, had helped him up after he fainted and never once flinched away from his touch.  

Credence, helplessly, lets her pull him along, inexplicably trusting her.  He doesn’t know anything about her, only that Percival and Tina know her.

“I’m Queenie, honey,”  she says, as if she read his mind.  “I did read your mind.”

Credence blinks, remembering something from his books.  “You’re a legilimens,”  he concludes.

“Yes, I am.  Didn’t Mr. Graves tell you?”

Credence flinches at her use of that name.  “He didn’t mention you.”

Queenie seems to huff at that, blowing a strand of blonde hair from her forehead.  “I swear, he has no manners whatsoever.  I’m Tina’s sister.”

“But you don’t look like her,”  Credence says, immediately cursing his rudeness.  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean for that to sound so… rude.”

“It’s no problem.”  She dismisses his concerns with a wave of a hand.  “I take after my father, Tina is more like our mother.  Although, no one knows where I got my eyes, everyone in our family has brown eyes.”

Ma had eyes like Queenie does, but slightly cooler, both in colour and kindness.  Queenie seems to have an abundance of kindness in her, while Ma had none.

“Here we are,”  Queenie says, opening a door and pushing Credence through.  The door slams behind him and Credence is left standing in a nearly empty bathroom.  Only one man uses the urinals, looking up in surprise at the noise.  Credence avoids his eye as he walks past for the privacy of the stalls.

With his business taken care of and his hands washed and dried, Credence leaves the bathroom, only to see Queenie leaning on the other side of the corridor.  Seemingly waiting for him, although that seems unlikely.  Surely she has better things to do than keep his company.

“Yes, I was waiting for you, honey.  Walk with me?”  She asks taking Credence by his elbow, wrapping long fingers around his skinny arm.

“I should be getting back to Percival’s off—”

“Nonsense,”  Queenie interrupts, “You have all the time in the world before the Director is finished meeting with the President.”

“I really shouldn’t.  Percival said—”

Queenie waves her hand at him.  “Oh, he won’t know.  Besides how selfish it is of him to keep you all to himself?”

“Percival isn’t selfish,”  Credence protests, miffed that Queenie would suggest such a thing.  Percival is the opposite of selfish.  He invited Credence into his life, his home, without asking for anything in return.  The least Credence can do, is listen to and obey what Percival tells him.   

“Poor Tina hasn’t seen you in months!  She’s been wondering how you’re settling in.”  Queenie taps a finger against her chin, a sly smile stretching on her face.  “I was hoping you weren’t busy, since we could drop by her desk and see what mischief she’s up to.”

At that, Credence perks up, “You’ll take me to see Tina?”  He asks hopefully.

“Of course!”  Queenie smiles winningly.

Percival wouldn’t stop him from seeing Tina if he knew he had the opportunity.  Besides, what would be the harm if he simply drops by to say hello?

“Alright,”  he relents, letting Queenie pull him along again.  

They walk through the halls, Queenie chattering excitedly about a baker and the multitudes of sweets and breads he shapes into magical creatures.  Credence finds himself drawn into her stories.  He wonders if Queenie’s baker is also a magizoologist like Newt, who sometimes writes to him, promising to come see him the next time he is in New York.  

Newt has sent him notes on obscurials, and while Credence likes Newt, he doesn’t like how scientific his notes can be.  He can see how Newt might be distancing himself—after all, he watched a child die in front of him and was helpless to do anything about it.  But, it makes Credence feel like another one of his creatures, a helpless thing in need of saving.

After Mary Lou and Chastity’s deaths by his hand, he doesn’t want to feel helpless again.  It only makes dark smoke hover in his vision.

Credence can control it, and it helps that he’s happier than he’s ever been, but the obscurus is so strongly tied to his emotions, any strong negative feelings might set it off.

“Here we are,”  Queenie says, walking them into a large room filled with witches and wizards sitting behind desks.  Some write on typewriters, some talk to one another, others wave their wands doing heaven knows what.  Papers fly about the air, shaped like birds, while other run on the ground like tiny mice.  

Queenie ducks as a paper bird flies towards her, but the moment she does, it flies right into Credence’s forehead, and he feels the sharp sting of a small paper cut above his brow.  The bird flies away, chirping disgruntled.

Queenie weaves among the mess of desks and people, while Credence struggles to keep up.  He rubbernecks when he sees what looks to be a large heron behind a desk, nearly walking into another desk.  Queenie stops him from making a fool out of himself at the last moment.  He follows her, but the heron eyes him with an eerie amount of intelligence.

“Credence, is that you?”  Tina says as she looks up from her work and spots them.  Credence smiles brightly, practically running towards her as she stands up from her desk, arms out to receive his embrace.

“Tina,”  he says happily when she wraps her arms around him.  She smells like warmth and everything good, along with a faint hint of what could only be… mustard?

“It’s so lovely to see you,”  she gushes, pulling back to looks at him.  Her heart-shaped face looks nothing short of pleased, and Credence blushes, looking down.  He truly adores Tina.  She’s everything he could ever want in a friend.  After she had saved him from his Ma, the thought of her gentle touch kept him going after beatings upon beatings.

“You too, Tina,”  he says, repeating the sentiment.

“Come here, you must tell me everything.”  She waves her wand, and two chairs slide up from nowhere, Queenie takes one while Tina deposits him in the other.  “How is the Director treating you?  Well I hope?”

“Percival is….”  Credence ducks his head, biting his bottom lip.  “He treats me much better than well.  He’s so kind, Tina, I do not deserve it.”

“Oh honey, you more than deserve it,”  Queenie says, patting the back of his hand.

“Queenie is right, if anyone deserves to have good done to them, it’s you.”

“I don’t know what to say,”  Credence whispers under his breath, overwhelmed that two beautiful, caring women would say such lovely things to him.

“You’re making me blush, honey.”  Queenie tilts her head, and a curl of golden blonde falls onto her forehead.  She smiles at him like the sun’s rays through an overcast sky.  “Oh my, if you keep thinking things like that I might just steal you away from the Director, keep you all for myself.”

“I cannot help it,”  Credence says helplessly, eyes wide and embarrassed.

Queenie leans forward, as if ready to whisper a secret.  “The Director will teach you occlumency, you need only ask.  I’m sure your _Percival_ would give you anything, so long as you simply request it.”

Tina kicks her sister lightly, and Queenie chuckles, leaving Credence to wonder what that was all about.

“So innocent, honey, I could eat you right up.”  Queenie sighs, and taps a finger under his chin.

Tina rolls her eyes.  “Enough teasing.  How are your lessons coming along, Credence?”

Credence nods his head, sitting up straighter.  “Very good, Tina.  I’ve finished all the readings Percival asked of me.”  He balls his hands on his thighs.  “We’re going to get a wand today, he believes I’m ready.”

“Oh?”  She asks, her mouth quirking,  “That’s the biggest step in any young witch or wizard’s life.  You’re a bit older than when most acquire their wands, but I imagine you’re looking forward to it?”

His smile is strained, but Tina doesn’t seem to notice.  “Of course.”

Queenie looks at him funny, and he absolutely doesn’t think about his fascination with wandless magic.  He knows how _heretical_ a form it is for most witches and wizards.

Tina asks him some more questions about what he’s learning, and Credence replies easily, realizing that she’s somewhat testing him on his knowledge.  He’s always been a quick learner.  It is as easy for him to recite the International Statute of Secrecy as it is verses from the Bible.

Eventually, both Tina and Queenie have to return to work, so Credence says goodbye to Tina, promising to ask Percival if he can come back and visit.

Queenie, once again, has her hands wrapped around his elbow as she leads him through the corridors.  Credence appreciates the contact.  She’s gentle and kind, and he enjoys her company.

Queenie turns her head to smile at him, no doubt reading the thoughts on his mind.  They walk into an open area, all the floors stretching beyond the railing to the atrium far below.  The clock Credence saw when he entered MACUSA, is suspended only a few feet above them.

“It’s a Magical Exposure Threat Level Measurer,”  Queenie says in explanation as they both look where the largest hand sits at the lightest green level.  Credence blinks.

[Tumblr link to art](http://iamonlydancing.tumblr.com/post/162255501547/art-for-chapters-one-to-four-of-as-fire-to-the-sun)

“I know, it’s a mouthful.  Most of us just call it the Measurer.  It practically runs MACUSA,”  she says somewhat sadly.  “If you’re high enough in the government, and….”  she seems to search for a word to say,  “ _enthusiastic_ enough about keeping no-majs from discovering our world, you can request a pocket sized version, although they’re strenuous on the budget.  I believe the Director has one.”

Credence thinks of Percival and his relationship with his brother.  How he long ago decided that choosing Rappaport’s law over his brother was the wrong decision to make.  Credence cannot reconcile that man with the one who would spend taxpayer money on an expensive piece of equipment intended to separate families, among other things.  

“Oh.”  Queenie says, her voice surprised.  

Credence—horrified that he would reveal something so personal about Percival when he entrusted knowledge of his brother to him, believing that he would keep it secret—quickly thinks of something else.

His mind floats to Percival sitting in bed beside him, their thighs touching, reading together.  Credence knows it is an innocent memory, but to anyone other than them, it looks damning.  Sinful.

“I… I…”  Credence tries to say, but his throat is dry and his face feels like it’s on fire.  He wants to curl in a ball and disappear.  “It isn’t what you think,”  he finally says, pathetic.

Queenie’s eyes are wide when she looks at him, and he feels himself shrink under her gaze.  He never wants to leave Percival’s house again.

“Credence, I would be the last person to judge,”  she says, her voice soft, soothing.  She pulls him behind a pillar away from anyone who might eavesdrop.  “You needn't worry about me.”  She pauses.  “Or about those two things you were thinking about.  I won’t tell another soul.”

Credence deflates, shoulders sagging from relief.

“Oh, honey,”  Queenie says, gathering him into a hug.  Credence presses his face to her neck, loving the comfort she gives as she strokes a hand down his back.  “You have suffered more than anyone deserves.”

“But I do deserve it,”  Credence whispers against her skin, a tear falling down his cheek.

Queenie takes him by the arms, pushing him back to look steadily into his eyes.  “You deserve self hatred as much as I do, and you don’t think I should hate myself, do you?”

“But you’re not…”  Credence says weakly.

“Let me show you something.”  She pulls out her wand and waves it, whispering a summoning charm.  While they wait, she swipes the back of her hand across Credence’s cheeks, wiping away his tears.  “What you want, Credence honey, is love, and love will forever be the opposite of wrong.”

Queenie lifts a hand and a small magazine flies into her grasp.  It looks to be the same size as the pamphlets he’s spent most of his life handing out, but a closer look betrays just how different they are.

The cover is bright red, a moving illustration of a woman with short bobbed hair and enough makeup to send his Ma into fits stares back at him, batting her lashes, beautiful.  “Now, you cannot tell anyone what I am about to show you, not Tina and not even the Director, do I have your word?”

Credence nods solemnly.  

“You must know, it’s not because I’m ashamed of what I write,”  Queenie says as she flips through the magazine.  Credence thinks he sees an illustration of two women wrapped in an intimate embrace, but it must be his eyes playing tricks on him, as Queenie turns the page.  “It’s just, everyone you know either works with me, or is related to me, or both.  I don’t need Teenie teasing me about this.  She might be a woman grown, but she was incorrigible over my infatuations in our youth.  Ah!  Here we are.”

Queenie hands the magazine over.  Credence takes it, and the first thing he sees is the title _Two Violets Abloom_ in large sweeping letters.  The second, is an illustration of two women kissing.  

Credence stares, flabbergasted, as one of the women slides her hand into the other’s hair, long fingers combing through as their lips move.  He shifts his gaze, and catches sight of the author’s name—Empress Goldie.

His eyes slowly move to meet Queenie’s who looks at him with a quirked brow.  “What do you think?”

“This is….”  Credence pauses to think of a word that would not offend her.

“Erotica.”  Queenie completes his thought.  “More specifically, sapphic erotica.”   

“ _My_ _God_ ,”  Credence whispers, taking his Lord’s name in vain for the first time in his life,  “Did you write this?”  

She must have.   _Empress Goldie._  Such a pseudonym is too much of a coincidence to be anyone other than Queenie.

“Yes.”  She grins, smile spreading slow like molasses.  “Would you like to read it?”  She offers him the magazine.  “I don’t mind, I can easily order another copy.”

Credence feels his face go hot and he sputters.  “I couldn’t…  I couldn’t possibly.”  

“Please take it.  You don’t have to be attracted to women to enjoy the stories, a few of the contributors write very tastefully.”

Credence feels his face go even hotter, but he takes the magazine anyway, rolling it up and tucking it into his waistband, under his waistcoat.  Queenie smiles winningly.  “You are just too adorable, honey, I can hardly stand it.  I don’t even know how the Director can.”

“Please take me back to Percival’s office,”  he begs quietly.  Before he topples over from all this blood in his head.

“Yes, of course,”  Queenie says, once again taking his arm.

Once outside Percival’s office, the golden door tall and imposing, Queenie pats his shoulder, saying,  “I may be in love with a man, right at this moment, but I’ve loved women before with all my heart, and all my body.”

Credence doesn’t know what to say, so he says nothing.  Queenie tilts her head to the side, curls bobbing as she studies his face.  He looks down, unable to stand the intensity in her gaze for longer than a few moments.

“You should come over to dinner one day,”  she says, “And bring your Percival.”

After pressing a kiss to his cheek, Queenie flounces off.  

He enters Percival’s office, a flush still high on his cheek only to see Percival himself sitting at his desk.  With a quill in hand, he looks up when he sees Credence, a pleased smile on his lips.  The sight of him makes even more blood rush to Credence’s face.  He quickly decides he needs to sit down before he faints in this office, again.

Percival rises when he sees Credence making a beeline for the couch.  Worry brews in his gaze as he approaches and kneels at Credence’s feet, a hand on each of his knees, close enough that he can smell the spice of his aftershave.

“Are you unwell?”

He shakes his head, even though that makes his vision spin.  “Queenie invited us to dinner.”

Percival looks surprised.  “Did she now?  And this caused you to look like you’ve recently seen a poltergeist?”

“In a way.”

Percival sits beside him.  Credence shifts over to make room, but Percival stays close enough so they end up pressed knee to knee.

“You have a cut on your face.”  Percival swipes his thumb along the miniscule nick, courtesy of a paper bird, and the pain Credence didn’t know was there, disappears.

“Oh.”

“You know you can tell me anything, right?”  Percival says, taking Credence by the chin, ensuring that he cannot look away.  “I mean it, anything.”

“I know,”  Credence whispers.

“I care about you,”  Percival says, leaning even closer.  “I want to take care of you, but you need to let me.”

Credence exhales shakily when Percival drops his chin after a long period of silence.

They’re about to leave for the wand permit office, Percival pulling on his jacket.  After adjusting the collar, he takes Credence by the hand, a warm and gentle palm against his.

“Let me in, sweet Credence.”

He wishes he could.

***

Johannes Jonker’s Wand Emporium is a rather unimposing shop with a simple wooden sign and an empty window display.  

Credence thinks the shop must be closed since the window sills are covered in a thick layer of dust.  There are no lights on inside, but when Percival and he walk closer, a man with fiery red hair and buggy eyes peers through the window, winking at them.

“That would be Johannes,”  Percival says, a grin lifting the corner of his mouth.  “It’s nice to see he remains as foolish as ever.”

“I thought he would be older,”  Credence confesses.  When he pictured the most accomplished wandmaker on the East Coast, he imagined someone who would at least have a little grey in his hair.

Percival laughs.  “He’s older than you think.  Devi believes he imports henna to get his hair that colour, while Magda thinks he’s a Metamorphmagus.”

“Aren’t those rare?”

“Ridiculously.”  Percival winks, holding the door open for Credence.  They find Jonker waiting for them in robes much too small, hands clasped behind his back, a grin spread wide across his face.

“Percy!”  Jonker exclaims, “How lovely to see you!”

 _Percy?_  Credence mouths.  Percival shrugs.

“Johannes, hope you’re doing well,”  Percival says, reaching out to shake his hand.  He pushes Credence forward to do the same.  Jonker shakes his hand with a smile, but when Credence tries to pull away, he finds his hand held captive.

Jonker’s large eyes study the scars and lines over his palms, the pain he has suffered at Ma’s hands.  He feels ashamed, embarrassed, that someone would think it appropriate to blatantly stare at his scars, but Jonker doesn’t seem the type of person who cares about politeness.

A long, spider leg of a finger caresses a wound bisecting his knuckle.  Credence flinches.  Ma had given him that eight years ago after neighbourhood bullies had stolen his pamphlets, casting them into the dirt and horse manure littering the streets.  

Ma had seen her muddied preachings, and ignored Credence’s explanation, saying it couldn’t have been true, that it must have been his fault.  She had claimed that God would have protected the pamphlets from ignorant children because they carry his one true word.

Credence would have gotten his usual whipping if he had kept his mouth shut and taken the abuse.  Instead, he had spoken up.  He called her vain for claiming that her words was infallible enough for God to protect.  

She had stormed and furied and hit him with his belt buckle, breaking his finger.  It was the first time a surgeon had to set his bone, but it hadn’t been the last.

“You won’t do well with Wampus hair.”

Credence pulls away and returns to Percival’s side, eyeing Jonker suspiciously.  “What makes you think that?”

“Your hands are drawn to the blood,”  Jonker says easily, like his words do not tear up Credence on the inside,  “I imagine the moment I give you one of my wands they would explode.”

Percival's arm wraps around his waist, giving him some comfort.  It isn’t enough.

“What do I do then?”  Credence asks helplessly.

“You needn't worry!”  Jonker claps his hands, completely unaware of the somber atmosphere in his shop.  “I keep a few wands from other makers for this exact reason.  A Beauvais would suit you well.”

Credence frowns.  Violetta Beauvais makes wands suited for dark magic.  Some of the greatest criminals, the most vicious, the most _bloody_ , have used her wands.  The core she uses, Rougarou hair, is suited for the darkest kind of magic.

Jonker rushes off into the stacks while Credence bows his head in defeat.  Is that what he is meant to be?  Is that what a wand wants of him—darkness?

Percival strokes a hand down his spine, likely thinking he is simply nervous.  Credence doesn’t want to worry Percival, nor does he want to alienate him with his heretical thoughts.  Mostly, he doesn't want the wand Jonker is fetching for him, not if it will prove what Credence already knows about himself.  That he is a being made of darkness.

If he was to get a wand, he wanted one like Percival’s: ebony and Wampus cat hair.  No matter that the wand betrayed Percival—its features embody him.  It exemplifies just how good and strong he is.  How beautiful he is, both on the inside and out.

Jonker returns with an open box, and Credence can practically sense the shadows closing in, surrounding the box.  Jonker’s approach feels akin to a funeral march.

“Here it is.  Swamp cypress and Rougarou hair.  Although, it’s a rather short nine inches, it seems to suit your personality.”

Percival speaks up, a deep frown on his face.  “I don’t know if that length will work, Johannes, you don’t know Credence as well as I, and while it may seem he’s rather quiet and introspective, he actually has a rather large personality.”

“Not as large as your fifteen inch wand, I hope?”  Jonker laughs.  “I had to custom make Percy’s,”  he whispers conspiratorially to Credence,  “The brat kept blowing out the tips of my smaller wands, until I finally relented.”

Percival huffs.  “As if that is my fault.  My father paid for the broken wands, didn’t he?”

Jonker rolls his eyes.  “Try the wand,”  he tells Credence, “If you blow out the tip, we’ll know to get you a larger one.”

Cautiously, Credence picks the wand from the velvet lined case, holding it in his hand.  Nothing happens.  

He looks to Percival for answers.  Percival smiles, then mimes waving it.  

Credence does, and black smoke like oily darkness floats from the end, red embers sparking in the air.  He nearly drops the wand in surprise.

“Yes, that’s the one,”  Jonker says happily, and Credence looks at him, thinking he must be mad.

“Are you sure?”  Even Percival looks skeptical.

“Oh, yes.  All this is what happens when Beauvais’ wands are chosen by a witch or wizard.  The Rougarou makes them all smokey.”  Jonker bats away the darkness, but it only dissipates when Credence returns the wand to its box.  “I’ve heard some say their spells carry a faint smell of wet dog!”  Jonker exclaims,  “Which is of course why Wampus is the superior material.  Rougarou simply do not groom themselves to a high enough standard.”

“There must be another one I could try?”  Credence practically begs.  He doesn’t want this wand, it terrifies him.

Jonker frowns at him, confused.  “Of course not, boy.  It _chose_ you, it’s yours now.”

Credence turns his gaze away in despair.

Jonker looks at him strangely as he rings up the purchase, even more so when Credence asks if he could keep it in the box instead of wearing it at his side in a holster.

They are in a nearby alleyway, about to disapparate when Percival runs a thumb along Credence’s cheek.  “You needn’t worry,”  he says, trying to sound reassuring,  “Seraphina’s wand core is also Rougarou.  It isn’t only for dark wizards.”

Credence wishes Percival’s words could calm his fears, but he can sense the darkness in the box held under her arms.  He cannot imagine how any good magic could come from it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can wrest bisexual Queenie Goldstein from my cold dead hands.
> 
> Next update will be two weeks from now, for work reasons. So say, July 3rd? 
> 
> See ya'll then!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woot, an update one day earlier than anticipated!

Graves wouldn’t say he’s a particularly melancholic man.  There’s just something about his brother that brings out the side of him that loves to painfully reminisce.

He had flooed Roland for the first time in ten years only a day after Credence had handed him his letter.  He sat as the green flames had flickered, waiting with baited breath for Roland to notice he was calling.  When his brother’s face had finally manifested in the flames, Graves had barely recognized him.

His nose still remained the same, slightly crooked from a bludger gone awry and a Skele-Gro potion past its expiry, but nearly everything else had been different.

Roland’s hair—once long and free flowing, so much so their mother used to call him her lion—had been cropped closed to his scalp.  He sported a walrus mustache that ten years ago at twenty-three years of age, he couldn't dream of growing.

Most importantly, he had looked happy.  

Roland had always been happy, at least until Graves betrayed him.  It was nice to know that the degradation of their relationship had visually impacted Graves more than it did Roland.  His brother looked good.  Muscular and strong—exactly how a thoroughbred Graves man should appear.  Their father would have been proud.

“You’re looking ragged, Perce,”  Roland had said with a smile, a slight foreign lilt to his words.  Ten years spent exiled in Scotland, made manifest.

“Rolls,”  Graves had replied, using the nickname Roland had been given the first time he climbed on a toy broomstick at a mere five years old, and did a barrel roll right off the bat.  Everyone in the family had known, then and there, that little Roland would go on to play Quodpot professionally.  Little did anyone suspect that he would settle on the more European game of Quidditch.  Better for him in the end, since hardly anyone knows what Quodpot is in Europe, no matter that it’s America’s favourite pastime.

“It’s nice to know some things haven’t changed,”  Roland had huffed, tucking his fingers into his belt loops, “You still look perpetually disappointed.”  Graves had frowned, and Roland had pointed.  “See, that’s what I mean.  Always frowning, Perce, you need to smile more.”

Graves had huffed.  “Rolls, so lovely to see you again.”

His brother had thrown his head back in laughter.  “I missed that about you, you know?  No one else in my life has quite the level of dry sarcasm that you do.  Although, Effie is getting there.”

Graves had been unable to hold back his smile.  “Would you tell me about her?”

Roland had gone on and on about his daughter, telling Graves about how she was faring in her education, having qualified to attend Hogwarts a year early on account of her great intellect.  Roland has despaired that she showed no interest whatsoever in Quidditch, only attending his games because it was expected of her.  He even relayed a story of Effie bringing a book to the World Cup, completely missing when Roland had hit a bludger at the opposing team’s seeker, knocking him off his broom, and basically winning the cup for Scotland.

Graves cannot help but feel that he would get along swimmingly with Roland’s daughter, no matter that he usually has little patience for children.  She sounds like a reasonable child.

He doesn’t remember how their conversation segued to their mother, but somehow it did.

When Goldstein had found him all those months ago, he had been brought down from the attic, and deposited at his kitchen table where a medic looked him over and prepared him for flooing to the hospital.  In his delirious state he remembered looking over to the balcony, expecting to see his mother’s beloved tulips in full bloom, but all he saw were dried, dead stalks.  He hadn’t remained conscious long after that.

“Do you still have Mum’s variegated bulbs?”  He had asked, hoping that Roland hadn’t sold them.  They would fetch a pretty penny on the right market.

Roland had looked at him funny.  They both were willed her collection of tulip bulbs, but most of them had been to Graves, knowing that he would actually plant them and take care of them.  Roland had kept only a few for himself—as a way to remember her.  He was not gifted with a green thumb, no matter how optimistically their mother tried to change that.

“I do,”  Roland had said.  Pausing for a second, he continues,  “Did he kill them?”

Stems blackened from dark magic and neglect, drooping from pots of dried soil.

“Yes.”

After Graves had come home from the hospital, he could barely look at the remains of his mother’s tulips.  He had known they were beyond any help.  It was only when Credence had come to stay with him that he buckled up the courage to remove them from the balcony, keeping the empty pots in the attic.  He had closed off the floor, never wanting to go up there again.  

Grindelwald has desecrated so many memories he has of his mother.  From locking him in her dowry trunk, to destroying the flowers that had been her obsession for as long as Graves can remember.

“I’ll send them with the owl.”

He hadn’t wanted Credence asking about the pots.  Graves was afraid he might have shed tears explaining what happened.  In the end, he couldn’t avoid it.  

Roland had ignored the moisture in his eyes, thankfully, continuing on with their conversation as if nothing had transpired.

His mother had and always will be good at bringing the men who loved her to tears.

***

Credence waits for him in the living room as Graves walks down the stairs, hair freshly washed and styled.  Credence wears the teal waistcoat Graves had fallen in love with at Janus’ shop.  It’s stitched with an arts décoratifs pattern that only helps to accentuate his trim waistline.  He looks resplendent, but the expression on his face makes Graves think that he doesn’t agree.

He hopes to change his mind.

Credence stands when he sees him approach, shoulders hunched over.  It’s a position unbefitting of how lovely he looks.  Graves strides forward and, apropos of nothing, sweeps him into his arms.  Twirling him around like he’s a debutante at her first ball, he whispers praise into the shell of Credence’s ear, delighting when his words make red bloom on pale skin.

“Percival!”  Credence gasps as Graves’ arms tighten around his waist.

He pulls back to look Credence in the eyes, “You look so handsome.”

“What’s gotten into you?”  Credence asks, a blush high and dark on his cheeks as he casts his gaze to the side, but Graves notes with satisfaction as his spine unfurls, straightening.

“I really couldn’t say.”  Graves pulls back, offering his arm to Credence.  “Ready to go?”  Credence takes the proffered arm, a confused look upon his face.

The Goldsteins’ apartment is located closer to the piers, so with that in mind, the two of them pull on their coats, fully expecting the chill, breezy night.  

A while ago Tina had mentioned that her landlady, one Mrs. Esposito, was rather conservative in her views, and didn’t appreciate the sisters bringing home unfamiliar men.  Graves is rather good at disillusionment, so even though the stairs creak as they ascend to the second floor, no one emerges to cuss them out.

Queenie throws open the door, a wide smile upon her face, before Graves can even raise his fist to knock.  She lights up when she sees Credence.  

Curiously, Credence is unable to even look at her.  He stares down at his polished shoes, his ears pink from embarrassment.  Or perhaps infatuation?

That second thought has Graves wrapping his arm around Credence’s waist as Queenie lets them into the apartment.  While he does not doubt that Queenie has only the purest intentions towards his ward, Graves cannot help but feel protective.

Credence is a beautiful man, and any woman would be lucky to have him.  

Just, not right now.

“Oh, Director Graves, you have nothing to worry about.”  Queenie waves her hand in dismissal, a coy grin on her lips.  Graves frowns, helping Credence out of his coat, slipping his off after.  They fly from their hands, draping over a nearby coat stand with a wave of Queenie’s wand

Tina peeks her head around a corner.  “Credence, you made it!”  She exclaims,  “I’m so excited to see you, what has it been, over a week?”

“Yes, Tina.”  Credence awkwardly stands by an armchair, until Queenie pushes him onto it.  He falls with a small ‘oof.’  She sits on the armrest after, crossing her legs, nudging Credence’s knee with her foot.  Graves wonders when they became so friendly.

“Lovely to see you too, Director,”  Tina says, her shoes clacking on the hardwood.  She waves her wand and two chairs from the kitchen shoot forward.  Graves sits on one, while Tina takes the other.

“Nice to see you have remembered me, Goldstein,”  Graves teases.

“Was that sarcasm, sir?  Bestill my beating heart.”

“I could have you sent back to wand permits, be careful, Goldstein,”  Graves warns, and Tina actually looks terrified, which was the opposite of what he intended.  He had found himself enjoying their salty banter.  

Queenie bursts into pealing laughter.  Wiping tears from her eyes, she asks, “Tea, anyone?”

With a cup of tea in hand, Graves chats with Tina.  They’ve been looking into the New York underground’s possible connections to Grindelwald, with varying degrees of success.  They aren’t able to get anything from the wizard himself, he refuses to speak to anyone who interrogates him.  

Graves tried, but all Grindelwald had to do was smirk, and he found himself short of breath.  He had smiled much the same way while torturing with the Cruciatus.  Graves can barely even watch the interrogation from behind glass, let alone be in the same room.

Many in MACUSA are angry that Britain is demanding his extradition.  Personally, Graves never wants to see him again.  He will do his job and keep America safe from his influence.  Beyond that, Grindelwald murdered so many more no-majs in Europe during the Great War than he did while in America, they deserve to have his head on a silver platter.

Europe should to host his trial, but his opinion is unpopular.  Many congressmen believe they should execute him and have it done with.  They clearly are not thinking about MACUSA’s foreign relations.  Grindelwald needs to be brought to justice in the International Confederation’s court.  At the very least so it sets a precedent for anyone else with a similar radical and murderous agenda.

He glances to Credence.  Some wanted him tried in court for breaching the statute of secrecy, to the murder of no-majs.  Graves had stood up for him in his place—all the while angry congressmen twittered and huffed—and argued for Credence’s freedom.  He had said it was MACUSA’s fault that he had slipped through the cracks.

Graves had produced the list of Ilvermorny students that had been sent letters, proving that Credence had not been sent one, even when he was clearly magical.  The obscurus had formed within him because of Mary Lou’s abuse, but the magical world had let him down.  They had not come to save him, when they were meant to.  Not one child is supposed to be left behind, and yet.  

Credence had not been at fault for his actions.  Instead it was the system that should have found him, but failed instead.

They still don’t know much about Credence’s background.  All Graves knows is that Mary Lou was not his true mother.  He clearly comes from a magical background, but how he ended up with the Second Salemer’s, Graves will never know.

In truth, he is too afraid to ask Credence, too afraid that it will bring forth memories that are better left alone.  Credence’s terrifying nightmares can attest to that.

Queenie giggles, her head bent to whisper in Credence’s ear, and Graves pulls himself out of his thoughts to watch them, his lips pursed.  Tina goes on, unaware of Graves’ attentions focusing elsewhere.  

Credence has a blush sitting high on his cheeks, his eyes wide like a doe, as Queenie speaks, voice too low for him to hear.  Whatever she is saying must be quite titillating for Credence to be wearing such an expression.

Queenie’s eyes shift, and their gaze meets across the room.  Quickly, he looks back to Tina, letting his mind fill with thoughts of investigations and leads.

“Could I see you for one second?”  He sees Queenie tap Credence on the shoulder from the corner of his eye, frowning as she pulls him from the room.

“Goldstein,”  Graves says, his voice full of disapproval, as he glares at the empty doorway Queenie and Credence disappeared through.  She better not be taking him to her room, that would be very inappropriate.  “I would appreciate it if your sister stopped trying to seduce my ward.”

Tina spits out her tea.  

Some of it lands on Graves, who frowns before casting a simple scourgify.  Most of it ends up down the front of her dress, as she stares at Graves with such absolute incomprehension, he feels quite miffed.  Was she unable to see how close her sister sat to Credence this entire evening?

“I promise you, sir, she is doing no such thing.”

Graves raises both of his brows.

Tina sputters,  “She sees Credence like a little brother we never had, she has no untoward intentions whatsoever.  For Merlin’s sake, this is _Queenie_ we’re talking about.”

“Does Credence know that?”  Graves asks shortly.  He doesn’t know why he feels this irritated.  Credence is a man full grown, he can do whatever he wishes with his time and his body, Graves has no control over him.  If he chooses to fall in love with a woman, that is his prerogative.  Graves should be happy for him, instead all he feels is something heavy lodging in his throat.

“Trust me,”  Tina says in such a serious voice, Graves turns to look at her,  “She is in love with someone else.”

“Does Credence know that?”  Graves repeats.  

He doesn’t know the first thing about helping someone through a broken heart.  No one he cares about comes to him for that sort of advice.  He used to help Roland with his school work, while their mother handled his schoolboy infatuations.  Graves was never good at romance, which is why all of his relationships failed to last longer than a few months.  Seraphina always said he was married to his work.

Tina glances away.  “I’ll make sure she tells him.”  

Credence returns a few minutes later holding a stack of what look to be magazines, before Queenie hands a paper bag to him, and he tucks them away.  Graves catches a glimpse of one of the covers moving, before they disappear into the bag.

He supposes he cannot fault Queenie for giving Credence wizarding reading material.  Graves wouldn’t know the first thing about subscribing to those sorts of publications.  Perhaps that’s all she wanted to do when she took him away?  Merlin knows why it needed to be in private.

“It was, Director,”  she says solemnly, “It’s like Teenie said.  He already knows.  I told him.”

Her words reassure him.  Queenie Goldstein is not a liar, what she is telling him must be the truth.  Whomever she loves is lucky to have her affections.  Graves doesn’t think he’s ever met a woman as kind as her.

“Why thank you,”  She says with a soft smile, even as a barely hidden sadness sits heavily in her eyes.

“Queenie?”  Credence asks, confusedly looking between Queenie and him.

“Oh, Credence, it’s nothing you have to worry about.”  She pats Credence’s shoulder, taking the bag from him and floating it over to sit by the bottom of the coat stand.  “I hope you like roast and vegetables, there were some delightful parsnips at the grocers, I just couldn’t resist.”

They sit at the dining table, while Queenie prepares dinner, all while Credence watches, rapt at attention.  Queenie is admittedly better at this sort of magic than Graves, and even Dolly.  There’s something poetic about the way she puts together meals.  Graves doesn’t make a show of his cooking, everything comes together as simply as possible when he cooks.  He didn’t even know there was a spell to cut vegetables into flower shapes, but lo and behold, Queenie proves him wrong.

“Would you like to learn, honey?”  She asks Credence.  “I’ll teach you simple spell, don’t you worry about that,”  she continues, chasing away any doubts she must have read in his mind,  “Come here, I’ll show you.”

Credence stands and approaches cautiously.  

“How do you hold your wand?”  Queenie asks, standing behind Credence, ready to correct his form.

Credence pulls his wand from his holster, the first time Graves has seen him touch it today.  He holds it awkwardly, and it seems out of place in his hand.  He’ll get used to it eventually.

Queenie adjusts his elbow so his grip is not as stiff.  He looks at Graves hopelessly, but he returns a reassuring nod.  Credence is talented, he will succeed.

“Watch how I move my wrist, and listen to the incantation.”  She points her wand to a glass of water and says a transfiguration charm.  Red blooms from within the liquid, turning it burgundy dark.  Credence gasps, stumbling back so his hip hits the stove, he drops his wand and it clatters to the floor.  

Immediately, Graves stands and rushes to his side.  He holds Credence’s jaw as he worriedly asks what is wrong.

Credence shakes his head, his eyes still fixated on the glass of wine like it scares him more than anything.  “How?”  He croaks, like that spell was the most incredible thing he has ever seen in his life.  “How did you do that?  Water to wine, Queenie, how?”

“I could teach you?”  She says, seemingly confounded at Credence’s reaction.  He shakes his head.

“I couldn’t possibly,”  he says, looking like he’s only a second away from panicking,  “It’s a miracle, no one should be able to do that.”

Graves runs his thumb along Credence’s jaw, bringing his gaze back to him.  “Did your God do something similar?”

Credence looks at him, something deep and unknowing in his eyes.  “During the wedding at Canaan, Christ blessed water, turning it into wine.  It was the first miracle, but not the last.”

Graves pushes a strand of hair from his forehead, he respects Credence’s devotion to his religion, he would never have him do something he considers sacrilege.  “Queenie can teach you something else?”

“I know a couple more beginner cooking spells,”  Queenie says.

Credence nods, his stiff shoulders relaxing.  He bends to pick up his wand.  “I’d prefer that.”

Queenie demonstrates a simple chopping charm, the spell deviated from a slashing curse used in combat.  The first time Credence tries it, he slices into the table, overpowered, and unfocused.  Queenie waves away his apologies, while Tina repairs the damage.

“Focus on the carrot, honey, and only the carrot.  Picture it, and feel the magic flow into your wand, like it’s an extension of you.”

Credence points his wand, and whispers the spell, his brows dipped in concentration.  The carrot chops right in half, then promptly bursts into flames, bright and high enough to singe his bangs.  The acrid smell of burning hair fills the kitchen.  Credence stumbles and nearly trips over his feet.

Once the fire is put out and Credence sits at the table looking slightly worse for wear.  Graves reaches over to pat his hand.

“Well done, Credence.”

Credence looks at him with wide, astonished eyes.

“You did good, honey, fire regardless.”  Queenie tilts his chin to face her.  “Now let’s see if we can do something about that hair.”

***

In the alley beside the Goldstein’s apartment, Graves and Credence stand, bellies filled with Queenie’s delightful cooking, minds on things other than the lovely evening they just had.

Graves still thinks about Grindelwald, and all the forms he has to fill out tomorrow.  The extradition requires quite a bit of paperwork.  Much more than the usual, since so many congressmen are fighting for the death penalty instead.

Credence’s inky hair—grown back with a spell from Queenie—floats like ribbons about his face.  Graves wants to run his fingers through the strands, grown longer over the months they’ve been living together.  Credence’s brows are dipped, and he appears deep in thought.  He had been studying the Goldstein sisters for the last part of dinner, and it seems like he has something pressing on his mind.

“Are you alright?”  Graves inquires.

Credence, his voice barely louder than a whisper, asks instead, “Where is my sister?”

Graves tilts his head to the side, his back to the cold brick, wand in hand readying to disapparate.  “We placed her in a good family.”

“No-maj?”

Graves nods.  “Of course.”

Credence walks forward.  “Did you erase her memories of Ma and Chastity’s deaths?”

Graves closes his eyes.  He doesn’t know the answer Credence wants, and he had no control over what happened to Modesty Barebone, regardless.  “The Thunderbird did that for us.”

“Did you remove all her memories of me?”  Credence asks, his arms snaking around Graves’ waist, tucking his nose against his neck.

“The Obliviators did, after the rain fell.”  Graves opens his eyes, all he sees is the delicate shape of Credence’s ear, he cannot see his expression.  “She is a no-maj, and you’re a wizard, you’re from two separate worlds.  Her remembering you would have violated Rappaport’s Law.”

He thinks of Roland and his wife.

Even though Credence and Modesty were family, her memory of him as her brother was a violation of the law, regardless of any hints of magic she might have seen him do before he brought the church down.

“I understand,”  Credence says against his skin,  “I’m glad she doesn’t remember me, she is my family but I—”

Graves apparates them home, not wanting to hear what self-deprecating thing Credence is bound to say next.

“—murdered her mother and sister in front of her,”  he whispers into the shell of Graves’ ear.  “She was so scared of me.”

Graves wants to hold him close and beg him to understand that he’s good.  He’s good, and he doesn’t deserve the pain he puts himself through.  

Credence pulls away.

***

Graves leans against the fireplace, a finger of bourbon in hand.  It’s a little after midnight.  Credence is fast asleep, and hopefully he stays that way until morning.  After today’s emotional stress, he doesn’t deserve to suffer his usual nightmares.

He studies the vase of Semper Augustus tulips, painted strokes forming their petals.  They glow, so lifelike for a painting.  The red and white feathered tulips were his mother’s favourite variety.  It took years to cultivate hers to resemble the ones many Dutch no-majs bankrupted themselves to buy, but somehow she managed it.

He reaches to the pot of floo powder on the mantel.  Casting the powder into the fire, it flames bright green.  “Roland Graves.”

After a few minutes a face appears in the flames, a smile on his lips.

“Perce, you get the bulbs?”

“They arrived a few days ago,”  he says.  His mother’s tulip bulbs sit in his desk in the study, waiting for him to work up the courage to plant them again.  

He still fears that something will happen and that he’ll lose them.  

His mother used to say there is nothing worse that a gardener hoarding his seeds.  It’s why she became so fascinated with tulip mania in the first place.  The thought that tulip bulbs had been exchanged as currency and never planted, infuriated her to no end.  She wanted to recreate the flowers that had brought an economy and country to its knees.  

With a bit of luck, and much magic, she succeeded.  

The tulips are meant to be planted, for people to enjoy.  What’s the point of keeping them hidden in the dark?  His mother would have scoffed at him.  Said he used to be stronger than this.  Graves might be weaker than he was before, but those bulbs are among the few things he has left of her, and he couldn’t bear to lose them again.

“How’s the family?”  Graves asks, hoping to change the subject.

“Effie’s doing well, although she insists I address her by her full name in my letters, she thinks Effie sounds childish.”

Graves chuckles.  “It does, Rolls.”

“But Euphemia is better?  I will never understand my daughter.”

“What about your wife, how is she?”  Graves asks carefully, hoping not to offend Roland.  They haven’t spoken about his wife at all during their calls, Roland hasn’t mentioned her, and Graves has been afraid to bring her up.  He did threaten to erase her memories the first time he met her, after all.

“Inez is doing good,”  Roland licks his lips, like he is trying to say something, but finding it hard to put together words,  “The last time Effie went to see her, she was in good spirits.”

“Are you living apart?”  Graves asks, trying not to be too inquisitive, while also incredibly curious.

“She has a well paying job at a telephone exchange in Edinburgh,”  Roland says, ignoring Graves’ question, and rambling on,  “Telephones are these curious things, Perce, they connect no-maj’s to their own floo network, but the devices are smaller than a fireplace, and you can only hear a voice.”

“I know what a telephone is,”  he says, shortly.

“Oh right.  Director of Magical Security.”

The silence stretches between them, awkward.  Roland clears his throat, but says nothing more.

“You’re separated?”  Graves asks, and the question hangs heavy between them.

“Divorced actually.”  Roland scratches at his moustache, a nervous tic.  “It was mutual, you don’t have to worry about that.  No one got their heart broken.”

“What happened?”

Roland chuckles.  “Not what you might expect.  It had nothing to do with you, or MACUSA, or even the move.  It was a classic case of marrying too young, and drifting apart over the years.  She was eighteen, I was twenty-three.  We would have waited if she hadn’t gotten pregnant.  After that, it was either flee the country or get rid of the baby, and neither of us wanted that.  We’re fine though, we’re still friends, and we parent Effie well.”

“Oh,”  Graves says, lost for words.  The first and last time he had met Inez, she had seemed so in love with Roland.  It seems impossible to think they could stop feeling what they had for each other.

Roland purses his lips, brows dipping.  Probably at Graves’ lackluster reaction.  “Sometimes marriages don’t work out, it doesn’t mean I wasn’t right.”

“You were, and I’m sorry,”  Graves says.  It goes against everything MACUSA stands for, and everything his position as Director is about, but what is he without his family?  What kind of man turns his back on his brother?  Rappaport’s law protects the wizarding world from discovery, but without exceptions, it tears apart families, and makes it all too easy for situations like Credence’s to happen.

Roland blinks, startled.  Throwing his head back, he laughs.   “Who are you and what have you done with my brother?”  

Graves looks away, brows dipping.  “Who indeed.”

Roland winces, evidently remembering Grindelwald.  “Sorry, that was insensitive.”

Graves chuckles darkly.  “It’s accurate.  I like to think I’ve changed from the man you knew ten years ago, regardless of Grindelwald.”

A faint smile pulls on the corners of Roland’s lips.  “You have, thankfully.  Now you’ll always be my favourite brother.”

“I’m your only brother.”

Roland grins.

***

Graves comes home after work to an empty house.  

He panics for a bit, going from room to room, calling out for Credence, before he hears thumping coming from the roof.  Walking up the stairwell, he remembers Credence mentioning that he would be working in the greenhouse with Dolly during the day.

The sun is setting, and it’s nearing six, they should have finished whatever they were doing long ago, and yet.  A piercing cry has Graves jogging up the last few steps, bursting through the door to see Credence with his hand wrapped around a wailing Mandrake’s stem.

“Percival, you’re home.”

The Mandrake shrieks even louder and Credence jumps back into action, carefully placing it in a large pot, packing soil around it’s wiggling, wrinkled body.

He stands, dusting off the front of a large, unfortunately coloured apron, smiling brightly.  “How was your day?”

“Eventful.”  

Grindelwald is finally about to be extradited to British authority.  As Graves was leaving the office, the British delegates were readying a portkey, waiting for the all clear from the Ministry.  

Graves had practically been chased off by their aurors, claiming they would rather not have him breathing down their necks.  He was all too happy to oblige.

Graves cannot stand their lead auror.  O’Malley attempts to circumvent Graves’ authority at any opportunity.  It is both frustrating and incredibly rude.  He should not have been chosen for diplomatic work if he cannot learn to be polite, and Graves has no patience to teach him.

“I’m glad you’re home,”  Credence says,  “Dolly left to meet a friend.  She said we could do without her for one day.  I hope that’s alright?”

“Yes, that’s fine.  I was cooking satisfactory meals for us weeks before she appeared on our doorstep.”

“I like your cooking, Percival.”  Credence smiles.  Swiping his hand across his forehead, he wipes away a day’s sweat.  It’s obvious he’s been working hard out here.  Graves looks around, seeing planters and pots organized on the balcony roof.  The greenhouse is swept, scrubbed, and the glass polished.  Dolly must have been teaching him strong cleaning charms.

Credence has a spot of dirt on his nose.  Graves could cast a cleaning charm over him, but he thinks Credence would rather appreciate a warm, soaking bath to chase away the aches and pains of a hard day’s work.

“Let me draw you a bath, and I’ll get dinner ready.  How does that sound?”

“Lovely.”

***

Soup simmers on the stove as Credence pads down the stairs in bare feet, robe tied around his waist.  Graves watches him from the kitchen table, a book in hand that he’s no longer reading.  The black velvet robe stands in sharp contrast to his skin, and it gapes open enough to show the dark hairs on his chest.  Graves looks back down at the book, but the words blur in front of his eyes.

“Soup?”  Credence asks, walking up to the stove.  From the clacking of a spoon on the pot, he must be tasting it,  “Delicious.  Thank you.”

“Serve yourself a bowl, and come join me.”

Credence pulls two bowls from the cupboard.  Filling the first, he places it in front of Graves, serving himself next.  Graves waves his wand, and bread flies out of the pantry, coming to land on the table.  It cuts itself into thick, meaty slices, perfect for sopping up soup.

Credence sits, head bowed, mouth whispering what Graves knows to be a prayer, before digging into his bowl.  A few months ago, he would have waited for Graves to give him permission to eat.  He used to be so thin, so sickly looking.  Now, with his hair grown an inch, and meat on his bones, Credence looks happy.  Seeing him this healthy and confident makes Graves smile.

“So, tell me about your day?”  He asks, wanting to know what Credence learned while helping Dolly with the plants.  They’re slowly but steadily expanding and revamping the greenhouse.  Graves didn’t even know he had Mandrakes.  They’re difficult to grow and cultivate, but Dolly and Credence seem to be doing a good job of it.

Credence ducks his head under the attention Graves is giving him, but his lips quirk in a smile.  He speaks of Dolly’s guidance, of learning from her, of the feeling of being elbow deep in soil.  What Graves seems to get from their conversation is that Credence appreciates the freedom of gardening.

“With Ma, I distributed her interpretation of the Lord’s word.  But when I’m growing plants, Percival, it feels like I’m doing what the Lord always intended me to do.  It feels right to take care of his creations, both magical and not.”

“Sweet Credence.”  Graves smiles gently, he reaches out and takes Credence’s hand, running his thumb over his knuckles.  “Have I mentioned how incredible you are?”

“Once or twice.”

Graves’s smile only widens, pleased that he feels comfortable enough to joke.

“You’ve been so kind to me, I feel as if I owe you the world,”  Credence says, nothing short of seriousness in his tone.

Before his mind even registers what is heart is doing, Graves waves a finger, a summoning spell on his tongue.  In a few short seconds a small box comes flying down the stairs, right into his hand.  “I’ll tell you what.”  Graves opens the box, pulling out a singular bulb.  To most it would look like a small, unassuming shallot, but to Graves, it represents his childhood, and a mother he loved more than anything in the world.  “Grow this for me, big and strong, and that will be payment enough.”

Credence picks the bulb from Graves’ palm and brings it to his eye, studying the shape of it, and the yellow paper that protects it.  “What is it?”

“When it flowers, you’ll know.”

“Thank you, Percival,”  Credence says, tucking the bulb into a pocket,  “I won't disappoint you.”

Graves squeezes his hand, feeling like his heart is constricting in his chest.  “You couldn’t possibly.”

Graves rises from the table and takes their empty bowls to the sink, after everything is washed and put away, he leans over and presses a kiss to the side of Credence’s head.  He breathes in the scent of soap and Credence, closes his eyes, and wonders when, by Merlin, did he fall in love.

***

He wakes to the shrill ringing of a bell, and practice has him jumping out of bed, his wand braced and ready to duel.

Looking around his room, he sees that it is empty of intruders, but his Measurer vibrates and rings, jumping about on his dresser, trying to get his attention.  When he picks it up, the hand is all the way in the red, indicating an emergency.  Either there’s another obscurus on the loose, or—Graves drops the Measurer, his wand already waving, summoning clothes from his closet—Grindelwald escaped.

As if to exemplify the urgency, his fireplace flares a bright green.  Seraphina’s head appears amid the flames as he buttons up a pair of slacks.  She’s seen him in much worse, and he knows her—there are strong men with more delicate sensibilities than Seraphina Picquery.

“He escaped, didn’t he?”  Graves states, not even bothering to look up for an answer.  He knows it in his gut.

“He murdered the British aurors during transport.  We believe he had an accomplice who brought a second portkey and discarded the first.  They’ve disappeared to an unknown location.  We don’t even know if he’s still in America.”

“Who do you think is working with him?”  Graves asks, quickly knotting his tie.

“O’Malley.  We didn’t find his body.”

Graves purses his lips.  He should have known it the moment he laid eyes on O’Malley.  Graves is supposed to be the expert on Grindelwald, isn’t he?  How couldn’t he have recognized one of his followers?

“Percival?”  The door cracks open, and Credence stands outside, wand held limp in his hand like he still doesn’t know how to use it.  One day, Graves needs to teach him defensive spells, face to face, he cannot rely on books alone and theory to keep him safe.

He just hopes he’ll get the chance to.  He’s never wanted anything more than to come home again to Credence.

“Mr. Barebone,”  Seraphina acknowledges Credence before turning back to lock eyes with Graves.  Even through the green flames he can see the exhaustion weighing down her shoulders.  Graves wonders if she plans on running for reelection after everything that has happened to them.  Knowing her tenacity—probably.  “Come to my office first, we’ll decide where to go from there.”  The flames sputter out, plunging the room into darkness.

Graves turns on his heel, fully dressed, and walks right up to Credence.  Taking his face in his hands, he stares deeply into his eyes, wishing to memorize the way Credence looks at him, just in case he never comes back.

“He’s escaped, Credence,”  Graves says, his voice barely louder than a whisper.

Tears automatically form in Credence’s eyes, making them glisten like stars.

“You’ll be careful, won’t you?”  Credence places a hand over his, pulling them even closer together.  “I couldn’t bear to lose you.”

Graves leans closer, pressing their foreheads together, their gaze never breaking.  “You know I will try my darndest, but things happen.”  He bites his lip, uneager to continue, but he knows he must.  “If he returns wearing my face, you need only ask about the gift I gave you today.  He won’t know what it is, but I will.”

“I don’t know either, Percival.”  Credence’s voice takes on a hysterical note.  “You never told me.”

“The painting above the fireplace, my sweet.”  He presses his lips to Credence’s forehead.  He seems to understand because his eyes clear of confusion.  Instead, something like determination settles in their depths.

“You will come back to me, I know it.  I will pray to the Lord that you will be returned safe to my arms, and He will make it so.  He must make it so.”

“I have to go.”  Graves pulls away reluctantly, striding to the fireplace.  Credence looks like he wants to run after him.  Graves desires nothing more than to wrap his arms around him and never let go, but he has a job to do, and people to protect.

Before he disappears into bright green flames, he thinks he hears Credence say, “Don’t leave me alone.”

Graves wishes he had more to give than easily shattered promises.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The painting that I imagine hangs above Graves' fireplace is [Hans Bollongier's Flower Piece.](https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/7/7f/Hans_Bollongier_-_Stilleven_met_bloemen.jpg)
> 
> Next update will be on the 12th or 13th, cheers!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can’t remember if GrindelGraves called Tina by her first name, or last name in the movie. For the sake of this fic, let’s pretend GrindelGraves and the real one only ever called her Goldstein.
> 
> No art for this chapter, since I couldn't resist uploading it super early, maybe I’ll make something later (unlikely). 
> 
> Since this is the chapter where the bass drops, some warnings include descriptions of graphic injuries, workplace harassment, and a period typical racial slur.

He emerges from the fireplace in Seraphina’s office to a roomful of aurors.  With robes flowing behind him, he strides forward, immediately yelling orders.

“Magda, open a direct line to the Ministry.  I want to know what they know, the second they know it.”  She salutes him and immediately runs from the room.  Graves walks after her, but not before turning and snapping his finger at Devi.  “You’re coming with us to the scene, I need your bird’s eye view on the situation.”

“Sir.”  She nods.

“Graves,”  Seraphina calls as she sees him, a gaggle of aurors at her heels,  “You’re apparating to the swamplands near Poughkeepsie, Mr. Tremblay will take you.”

“Basile’s here?”  He asks, but Seraphina has already disappeared around a corner.

He hears a familiar chuckle over his shoulder.  Whipping around, he comes face to face with a man he hasn’t seen in at least five years.

With the same black hair cropped to the scalp, but a new pair of spectacles balanced on the tip of his nose, Basile Tremblay looks as cool and composed as ever.  “I didn’t think you missed me, Graves.”

“I didn’t even notice you were gone,”  he replies easily, sliding back into the banter they picked up while fighting dark wizards together in the evergreen forests of Germany.  Basile leads at a quick pace, Devi right behind.  Outside the Woolworth, Basile wraps his hand around the back of Graves neck and they disapparate with a loud crack.

He reappears ankle deep in muck.  Graves grumbles as he feels the wet seeping through his pants.  Seeing Basile hovering a few inches above the marsh without a care, Graves almost forgot how easily magic comes to him.  Once, he thought it frightening, now he knows it’s just how Basile learned to channel his magic.

“This is a familiar situation, wouldn't you say?”

Graves has the grace to ignore that.  Climbing onto a dry bank, he whispers a cleaning spell to get the muck and water out.  It won't keep him clean for long.

Devi has already transformed.  Swooping above their heads, she squawks, wingspan stretching across the night sky.  She flies over a set of trees to a series of bright lights illuminating a nearby clearing.  Graves and Basile follow.

“Why are you here?”  Graves asks, brogues slipping in the mud as he walks,  “Not that I’m displeased to see you.  I thought you were up in Quebec acting as liaison for your clan.”

“I am acting as liaison.  One of the aurors murdered was kin.  The Chief’s cousin.  Daniel chose to remain in Britain after the war, to work at the Ministry.”  Basile looks at him out of the corner of his eye, sharp as ever.  “There’s less stigma for conduit magic practitioners in Britain.”

“And MACUSA doesn’t accept applicants who don’t wield wands, no matter how competent they are at magic.”  Graves finishes.

“I’m not here to debate how backwards I find your laws.  Daniel was my friend, Graves, this is personal,”  Basile says, his voice tight.

They emerge into the clearing to organized chaos.  Aurors rush about, led by bobbing lumos spells, while mediwizards stand like defeated soldiers around a line of eight covered bodies.  Under one of those blankets lies Basile’s friend.

“Of course, I apologize.”  He lifts a hand to Basile’s shoulder, squeezing it in comfort.  Basile barely looks at the line of bodies before marching off and demanding a report from a younger, frazzled junior auror.  Most of the aurors at the scene look like they’ve been dragged out of their beds for this, which only emphasizes how unprepared MACUSA was.  

As far as their intelligence can tell, Grindelwald’s supporters are still active only in Europe.  Yet, somehow they came to America to free their leader, and MACUSA didn’t even know until it was too late.  When Grindelwald began gaining power in Belgium, his followers left a trail of dead no-majs.  Nothing of the sort has happened in America, but after his replacement, they shouldn’t have grown complacent.  They should have expanded intelligence, instead of focusing all their attention on Grindelwald.

“They’re searching for magical signatures,”  Basile returns, his expression grim, “But nothing is turning up.”

Graves addresses a nearby auror in a mud covered overcoat.  “Is your team certain he used a portkey?”

“Yes, sir.  We would know if he disapparated, it gives off a very distinctive magical signature that we can trace.”

He wouldn’t be able to create an international portkey on his own, or even a domestic one.  MACUSA regulations are strict, the Portkey Office would know right away. Graves taps a finger against his lip.  “Either he must still be in the area, or his contact brought a black market portkey with them.”

Graves doesn’t mention O’Malley’s possible involvement.  Accusing him without proof would ignite an international incident.  Besides, he doesn’t know that it was him for sure, the evidence is circumstantial at best.

“Perhaps he walked?”  Basile suggests, gesturing out into the dark expanse of the wetlands.  “The man has two able feet, does he not?”

Graves purses his lips in thought.  Basile has a point, and they might as well try, they’re not finding anything new with what they’re doing.  

He points his wand to his throat.  “ _Sonorus_.”  Clearing his throat, his aurors stop whatever they’re doing at his amplified voice.  “You have new orders, expand your search radius to the distance an able-bodied man could walk in the time since the escape.  No one goes alone, I want you all in pairs, but try to cover as much ground as possible.”  He stands tall and firm as he looks around the gathering, meeting as many eyes as possible in order to convey his next point.  “He is dangerous, and stronger than any of you.  Do not engage him combat, send a patronus to me or your captain, whichever is closest.  You have your orders, aurors.”  Graves drops his wand from his throat.

“What now?”  Basile asks as Graves’ aurors spring into action, heading off into the marshes in a circular formation.  “Do we wait?”

He hears a distant squawk, one he recognizes as Devi’s call for attention.  “Never.”  He grabs Basile by the arm and disapparates.

When he materializes, he drops Basile’s arm instinctively, putting his hand over his nose.  It smells like swamp, but also decay and dark magic.

“Fuck,”  Basile swears, muffled into his sleeve,  “What is that foul stench?”

Devi lands beside them, long heron legs turning into fabric covered human ones.  “I found auror O’Malley,”  she says.  Her voice rough, so unlike her usual cool, collected self.  She points towards the canopy.

Graves looks up, and wishes he could look away again.

O’Malley’s arms stretch out from his sides, his head tilted so far back it looks unnatural, his neck is broken.  His hands are caught in the branches that suspend him from so high up.  He must have been forcibly thrown into the sky with a powerful curse.  His legs dangle, moving in the breeze like a puppet.  More horrifying than anything else, a hole the size of a fist sits in the center of his chest.  It’s too dark to tell, but Graves thinks it must have pierced him right through.

He waves his wand and sends his Patronus to locate a mediwizard.  There’s no helping O’Malley.  He’s dead for certain, but Graves does not recognize the magic that made him so.  The hole in his chest is ringed in black decay, veins of darkness emanating from it, and the _smell_.  Merlin, the smell.  It’s nothing he’s ever seen before.

“There’s evil in whomever did that,”  Basile says, and Graves strongly agrees.

A mediwizard appears with a pop, sees where Graves is pointing, and her eyes widen in surprise, or maybe horror.  “Mercy Lewis!”  She exclaims.

With a team of mediwizards assessing the scene, Basile and Graves stand to the side.  Out of the way, and out of the reach of prying ears.

“I was wrong,”  he whispers,  “It wasn’t O’Malley.”  If it was, Grindelwald would not have killed him like this.

Basile nods.  “This isn’t his kind of dark magic, there needs to be hatred behind a spell for it to make flesh decay like that.  Grindelwald murders with an impersonal killing curse.”

“You think whoever did this had a grudge against O’Malley?”

“What else could it be,”  Basile says.  “He died a violent, horrifying death, someone _wanted_ to do that to him.”

“Sir?”  One of the mediwizards calls, Graves glances over.

“What is it?”

“O’Malley was under the Imperius curse when he died,”  the mediwizard says, his mouth a grim line.

“For how long?”  Graves demands.

“A few hours at least.  We’ll need the caster’s wand to tell for certain, but from the degradation of tissue around the spinal column, an inexperienced wizard did the deed, not Grindelwald.”

Graves already knows it couldn’t have been him, they had him under strict observational wards at MACUSA.  He couldn’t have casted a warming charm without them knowing, let alone an Unforgivable.

Graves presses his thumb and forefinger to his forehead.  His aurors could not locate Grindelwald in the swamp, nor did they find any trace of disapparation.  He’s gone without a trace.  The only clue they have is O’Malley’s body.  They need to find out what he did while Imperiused.  He had to have gotten his hands on an unlicensed portkey somehow.  Once they find who authorized that portkey, because someone had to, they’ll know where Grindelwald went.

“Are you staying in the city?”  He asks Basile.

“I am.”

“Good.”  He nods his head distractedly.  “I don’t know what’s going on, Basile, but I don’t like it, and I want you close.”

“Just like old times.”

“Exactly.”

***

He emerges from the floo, carrying with him layers of mud and dirt from the wetlands.  A quick spell has his clothes cleaned and straightened out.  Finally returned to his usual state, he strides off to find Credence.

First he checks Credence’s room, but his bed is empty.  Next, he checks his own room, the last place they saw each other.  What he sees on his bed launches his heart into his throat and has him all but tripping over his feet in an effort to get closer.

Dolly sits with Credence curled in her lap.  Her eyes are wider than the moon, as she pets shaking fingers through Credence’s hair, whispering reassurances to him.  Credence writhes on the bed, clawing at his shoulders.

His eyes blaze pure white as he looks up to see Graves at the foot of the bed.

“Young master Graves is home, Credence.  See?  Dolly would love it if you put away the shadows, please?”  A tendril of black creeps forward over his face, and Dolly makes a horrible sound of fear.  Graves snaps his head to the side, wordlessly telling her to go.  She disappears with a clap.  Quickly, Graves climbs onto the bed, trying to pull Credence close.  The darkness flares in a rush, screaming at him.  A maw with no mouth.

Graves drops his hands, raising his palms in surrender.  The darkness swirls around Credence, protecting him.  

Credence’s voice is rough like sand when he says, “Who are you?”

He remembers that they have a code.  He cannot believe he forgot, even through the stress of the last few hours.

“I gave you a tulip bulb, sweet Credence,”  Graves whispers.

The darkness quiets its murmuring, and seems to retreat.  Light seeps back into the room, and Credence is left shivering on his bedspread, eyes wide and terrified as he looks at Graves.

“I’m sorry,”  Credence whimpers, “Tell Dolly I’m so sorry.”

Graves shakes his head, his hair tickling his forehead.  He must look quite the mess.  “None of that.”  He opens his arms wide.  “Come here.”

Once Credence is settled in the embrace of his arms, he presses his face to Graves’.  “Is everything okay?”  He asks, nervously.

“It will be,”  Graves lies.

***

“Are you sure your contact will talk to us?”  Tina asks as they approach the Italian restaurant where Magda’s inside man into the illegal resale of MACUSA property eats lunch every other day, unsuspecting of the three aurors coming to question him.

The bell rings as Tina opens the door and nearly walks straight into a braid of garlic.  She glares a little too seriously at the decoration as Graves goes around her.

His eyes narrow in on their rather pale target, sitting at a small round table.  He saws at a steak that looks like it spent only a few seconds on the grill before it was served.  A black, canvas umbrella leans against the table.  Right away, Graves assumes a few things about Magda’s contact that he knows must be true.

Magda slides into the chair opposite, while Graves and Tina flank her back.  She is familiar with the man, so she gets to politely ask him a few questions.

“Linguini Sanguini, how’s that steak?  Bloody enough?  You toothy bastard.”

Graves wants to slam his head against something hard and unforgiving.  Diplomatic, Magda is not.

The vampire sitting across from them makes a face of such abhorrent disgust, Graves is starting to assume that he’s not as willing of a contact as she has led them to believe.  He sneers like he hates her more than anything in the world.  She’s probably arrested him a few times, and comparing his name to a variety of pasta does not help her cause.

“Let’s cut to the chase, bucko.”  Magda continues, oblivious to the mood.  “Unlicenced portkey dealers, who are they, where are they?”

Sanguini says nothing, just slowly saws off a piece of beef, placing it delicately in his mouth, chewing very slow.

Magda points a finger right between the vampire’s eyes, “Are you going to talk, leech?”  Still Sanguini says nothing, just continues to chew, evidently enjoying their one-sided interrogation.  Tina frowns, then nudges Magda.  “I’ve got this,”  Magda waves her hand, but Tina doesn’t relent.  Soon Magda stands beside Graves, pouting petulantly.

“You know,”  Tina says, leaning closer to Sanguini, eyes narrowed conspiratorially,  “Don’t think we haven’t noticed that we’re in an Italian restaurant.”

Sanguini stops chewing, looking warily at Tina.

“I seem to recall that Italians quite enjoy garlic, and yet.”  She reaches into her pocket and pulls out something, throwing it right at Sanguini’s head.  It bounces off, falling right onto his steak.  A clove of garlic sits innocently amid the juices, white paper now stained red.  Sanguini blinks, then snarls, showing off his pointed teeth, but his reaction is delayed, and the gig is up.

Graves taps a finger against his chin.  “I seem to recall that the brewing of Sir Herbert’s _Human For A Day!_ potion is banned in New York City, and yet…”  he trails off.  Sanguini places his knife and fork down, and just _glares_.

“What do you want to know?”  He asks.

Graves pulls a picture from his jacket, placing it on the table between them.

O’Malley stares back, easily recognizable for someone who makes a living off information.  Graves taps the photo.  “Who did this man contact for a portkey?”

Sanguini shrugs, leaning back in his chair, arms folded in front of him.  “I don’t know.”

Magda lunges over Tina’s shoulder.  “Listen here, buddy,”  she grabs at his tie, yanking him forward.  There’re making a scene, and the other witches and wizards in the restaurant look like they’re about to call the authorities on _them_.

“Tone it down, Magda,”  Graves whispers under his breath, but she does nothing of the sort.

“I know where you keep your coffin, Linguini, don’t fuck with me,”  she hisses.

His eyes widen in horror.  “Fine!  I can’t tell you the dealer’s name, but I know the destination.”

“Where?”  Magda demands, shaking Sanguini so his brain rattles around in his skull.

“Boston, the North End, an abandoned building on Hanover street.”

“How do we know you’re not lying?”  Graves asks.

“Why the hell would I lie?”  He points at Magda.  “You said you know where I sleep, I’m not lying and risking you coming after dark to light me up, and I ain’t moving, I like my house!”

Tina smiles as she gets up from the table.  She picks up Sanguini’s umbrella and says.  “The potion must wear off soon, otherwise, why would you bring this?”  She runs her wand threateningly along the edge of the only thing keeping Sanguini from crisping out in the sun.  “What else do you know?”

Sanguini goes even paler, if possible.  He clears his throat, glancing around the restaurant nervously, before crooking his finger, urging them closer.

He says in an almost inaudible whisper, “The dark wizard you’re looking for—yes, I know about that, no need to get your bloomers in a twist—his fellas in Europe are blowing their gaskets trying to figure out where he is.  They don’t know who took him, or what’s going on, so they’re even more murderous than usual.  If you aurors could figure it all out as soon as possible, that would be lovely.”

Sanguini grabs his umbrella right out of Tina’s slack grip, and books it for the door, leaving the three of them to stew over what he just said.

“How can they not know?”  Magda asks, her brow furrowed deeply beneath her hat.  “His followers are the only ones who wanted him free.”  Tina looks just as puzzled.

As they walk to a nearby alley, Graves finds he can hold his curiosity in no longer, and he turns to Magda.  “Do you actually know where he lives?”

Magda shakes her head.  “Nah, boss, but he doesn’t know that.”

***

Devi waits in the lobby when they return to MACUSA.  She wears an expression more grim than usual.  Something must have happened in their absence.  She leads them to the elevator, and the three of them go silently.  Red nods at Graves, but says nothing, perhaps sensing the mood.

“Department of Major Investigations, Red, please,”  Devi says, and the elevator ascends.

“What am I expecting, Devi?”  Graves whispers as they step onto the floor, the elevator zooming off somewhere else.

“Two things, sir,”  she says,  “First, the mediwizard report was just released.  Whatever killed O’Malley was not a spell.  Sorry—not _purely_ a spell.”

“What?”

“They found a lead slug lodged in the tree behind him.”

“A what?”  Magda asks.

“He was shot with a no-maj gun,”  Graves says, making a sympathetic face.  Not many wizards know about no-maj weapons, but those that do, are all too familiar with them.  “And the second?”

“We released the report to the auror department.  One of the senior aurors recognized the killer’s handiwork.  He says he worked on a case where the victim had the same wounds.”

“Then why are you acting so secretive?”

She purses her lips.  “You won’t like this, sir.”

He groans, scrubbing a hand through his hair.  “Just tell me, Devi.”

“The senior auror?”  Devi says over his shoulder—to Magda.  “It’s Jauncey, sir.”

He can practically feel Magda stiffening in anger.  Graves cannot blame her.  His own fists clench at his side, and he already feels frustrated.

While Graves is very good at keeping his _proclivities_ well hidden, Magda is rather open in her preference for the fairer sex.  A few years back, she had an affair with a secretary from the Obliviation department that ended rather explosively.  It was the only talk feeding the rumor mill at MACUSA for weeks.  Graves hated it, both having his auror’s private life gossiped about in such a disrespectful tone, but also because of the sheer misogyny it brought forth in his department.

Magda submitted the necessary harassment claims, and Graves was able to happily fire a few aurors.  The only one he couldn’t touch was Hugh Jauncey.  A descendent of one of the Twelve, and a flaming racialist to top it all off, Jauncey had a few choice things to say about Magda, statements that were corroborated by colleagues.  Still, even after definite proof was collected, one floo call from Jauncey’s lawyer had the Auror Commissioner calling Graves into his office.  He was told he couldn’t fire Jauncey without risking Magda’s, and even his, career.

“I’m going to sit this one out,”  Magda declares, her head held high,  “I’d rather not impede the investigation by strangling one of our leads.”

Graves nods, saying, “I might end up doing that for you if he infuriates me enough.”

Magda stares at him with wide eyes, but he just pats her on the shoulder.  “Go on, get out of here.  I promise I won’t.  Do too much damage, that is.”

Magda sends him one last strange look, then walks off, muttering under her breath something about Graves finally developing a sense of humor.  Excuse her, he’s always had a healthy sense of humor.

“Don’t worry, I’ll hold you back if the situation degrades,”  Devi says with a straight face.

“If by holding him back, you mean pecking out Jauncey’s eyes, I’m all for that,”  Tina says.

“It’s comforting to know we’ll all commit assault for Magda, but hopefully it doesn’t come to that.”  Graves stops his aurors outside the record’s room.  “Just remember, be professional, and Jauncey should offer the same courtesy.”

“Doubt it.”  He hears Tina whisper under her breath.  Graves shakes his head fondly and pushes open the door.

An old, portly man in an auror uniform leans against a table, cigar in hand that he doesn’t even bother to hide.  He takes a huff, and smoke blows in two streams from his nose, his eyes never leaving Graves’ as he breaks the number one rule of records.

Graves flicks his wand and ice seals over the cigar, dropping it from Jauncey’s hand to the carpet, where he vanishes it.  So much for civility.  “There's no smoking in records.”

“Graves,”  Jauncey drawls, “I see you brought your molls, and the Indian no less.”

Devi grits her teeth, but says nothing.  Graves strides forward, taking a seat at a table.

Jauncey slides his slimy eyes over Devi, mouth twisted even as he changes his voice to sound pleasant.  “You’re married to a Metamorphmagus are you not?  A blonde fellow?”  He sounds like a colleague inquiring after another’s family, but anyone can tell he feels nothing but hostility.  “I can only imagine how _unique_ your future children might look with his hair and your exotic hue.”

Devi still doesn’t open her mouth, she simply glares, sweeping her coat out behind her as she takes a seat beside her director.

Graves is about to tell him off, but Tina beats him too it.  She chuckles darkly, clapping a hand on Devi’s shoulder, taking the last chair as she says,  “Actually, the last time I saw Max, his hair resembled a yuletide tree, decorations and all, forest green for the season.”

Jauncey sneers, but Tina meets his gaze unflinchingly.  He turns to Graves.  “I will say this about you, Graves, at least you inspire loyalty in the masses.  It must be that wand of yours.  Fifteen inches, right?  What a big personality, women must love it.”

Graves hates what he’s implying.

His most trusted aurors are women, only because they happen to be the most capable.  He would never sleep with his employees, and all of MACUSA knows it.  He's a confirmed bachelor, and while the gossip rags like to have a field day, speculating when he even talks to a woman outside the office, never have they suggested that he has anything more than a professional relationship with his aurors.

Jauncey is slimy and disgusting and Graves refuses to stoop to his level.

“This bantering is all well and good, but the case?”  He asks, holding out his hand.  Jauncey floats over a rather small folder.

Most murder investigations have piles and piles of paperwork, from witness statements, to autopsy reports.  Graves opens the folder and only sees a few items—photographs from the crime scene, some notes that were torn from a pad, and a badly typewritten report.  From the dates jotted on the back of the photos—around nineteen years ago—the case was only worked three days before Jauncey wrote his report and labeled it unsolved.

Graves studies the victim in the photograph.  With long black hair and a noble nose, the woman must have been beautiful when she was alive.  In death, her body had suffered the same curse as O’Malley’s, and a blackened hole sits in the middle of her chest.

As he reads the report, brows dipping as he goes, he finds one thing missing.  Handing it to Tina, he says,  “You didn’t find a slug at the scene.”

Jauncey’s smug smile slides off his face.  “An insect?”

“A lead slug or a musket ball, from a no-maj gun.  Didn’t you sweep the street for evidence?”  What shoddy investigative work, Graves is embarrassed on his behalf.

He makes an expression of disgust, folding his arms over his chest.  “I didn’t bother.  It had rained the night before, and the street was rank with horse shit.  I didn’t think to look for no-maj projectiles.  Besides, the case seemed open and shut.”

Tina looks up from the report.  “You say here you believed the woman was a prostitute and that one of her clients murdered her.  But you don’t give any proof to corroborate your theory.”

“I talked to her neighbours at the boarding house where she lived.  They said she had a child out of wedlock, said they saw strange men entering her room.  There was no child when her body was discovered, so the murderer must have been the father coming to reclaim his bastard.”

Tina slaps the back of her hand against the report.  Her voice raised, she says,  “There’s no evidence that a client murdered her.”  She stands up.  “A child was missing and you didn’t even put that in your damn report!”  She slams her hands against the table, Graves doesn’t bother holding her back.

Jauncey with a red face, looking like steam is coming out of his ears, shouts, “She was a Kalderash immigrant!  Her kind don't even use wands, they make magic _jewelry_!  It's a disgrace!”  He counts his arguments on his fingers.  “No family.  No one who looked for her.  Who’s going to miss a whore, anyway?”

The devastation sits heavy in Tina’s voice.  “How can you be this awful?”

“It would have been a waste of my time finding a child that would grow up a criminal.  If it didn’t die in the gutter before then.”  He jerks his thumb back to his chest.  “I had better, more important cases to solve.  Families that lost loved ones.  Families that would actually care if I brought a murderer to justice.”

“You abandoned the case, you didn’t even bother investigating it!”  Tina shouts.

“I did.  So what?”  Jauncey sneers, smile cruel and twisted.

Graves decides he’s heard enough.  He rises from his seat, his aurors following him after.  Sweeping the report and photos back into the folder, he hands it to Tina who tucks it under her arm.

“Now, you’ll have to explain to auror O’Malley’s family that your decision to neglect your duty kept a murderer on the streets.”  Walking to the door, he stops just before pushing it open, saying,  “The murderer that killed _their_ loved one.  Let’s see your lawyer argue you out of that colossal fuck up.”  He smiles.  “I expect I’ll see your resignation on my desk within the next few days.  Good day, Jauncey, hopefully we never see each other again.”  He lets the door slam behind them.

Graves rolls his shoulders.  He walks in long strides down the corridor, back straight and confident.  He feels damn good.

“Sir,”  Tina says as they wait for the elevator,  “I don’t know what’s gotten into you, but whatever it is, I love it.”

She’s right.  He hasn’t felt this satisfied since his first few years as a junior auror.  He half wants to return home and sweep Credence into his arms, perhaps even into a dance.  He loves to dance, but he never gets to except at work functions, and never with anyone he wants, but fuck, he wants Credence.  He wants him so damn much.

“You know what, Tina?  I agree.”  

Tina gapes, either at the fact that he just agreed with her, or because this is the first time he has ever called her by first name to her face.

Devi huffs, shaking her head in amusement.  “Please don’t start calling me Rajani, sir, no one but Max gets to use that name, not even my parents.”

Graves nods.  “Fair enough, Devi.”

***

He stops by a department store before he returns home, a bag in hand.  Dolly smiles when she sees him, an apron tied around her waist.  He knows she and Credence had a chat in the morning about what happened.  He heard their whispering as he came down the stairs.

“He’s in the study, young master Graves.”  She eyes the bag in his hand.  “How come young master never brings Dolly pretty gifts?”

Graves snorts.  Reaching into the bag he pulls out a child’s cloche hat, the perfect size to fit her head.  She brightens immediately.  Dolly’s ears droop rather low on her head, so when she eagerly pulls on the hat, it doesn’t obstruct her hearing.

“Dolly was only joking, but how marvelous!”  She drops her broom and rushes over to a polished bronze pot, admiring her reflection.  “Do you think Dolly’s suitors will like it?”

Graves bends on one knee and kisses her cheek.  “I think any elf would be lucky to have you.”

Dolly’s nose turns even redder than usual.  She swats him on the side in embarrassment.  “Go see Credence, he’s been waiting for you all day.”

“Oh, has he?”  Graves stands up, cringing when his back cracks.  He’s getting long in the tooth.

She rolls her eyes.  “Of course, every single day it’s Percival this, Percival that.  It would be annoying if Dolly didn’t absolutely adore him.  Now, go on, give him whatever else you’ve got in that bag.  Dolly’s sure he’ll love it!”

He finds Credence sitting on the recamier he had quickly claimed as his own.  He stares out the window, the setting sun casting a warm glow on his skin.  He looks so beautiful it makes his chest hurt.

“Credence?”  He calls out softly, hoping to avoid startling him.  Credence slowly turns his head as Graves walks forward, a smile lighting up his face.  “How are you?”

Graves stands by the recamier, and Credence grabs his hand, linking their fingers together.  He wonders if Credence feels lonely at home by himself.  Dolly isn’t always at the house, she does her duties, then leaves.  All Credence has are books to keep him company.

“This is for you,”  Graves says, depositing the bag in his lap.  He perches on the recamier’s scroll and watches him open the bag, softly petting his hair as he does.

“Oh, Percival,”  Credence whispers as he pulls out the forest green cardigan Graves had seen in a window display.  He couldn’t help but remember Queenie’s magazine and the model he had seen within its pages, wearing the exact same cardigan.

Credence runs his fingers along the cashmere knit.  “Do you like it?”  Graves asks, his finger now stroking along the back of Credence’s neck.  The flush that reddens the skin there delights him.  “It’s too warm to wear during the day, but if we go out at night again, it will keep you warm.”

Credence gathers the cardigan to his chest, burying his face in the soft fabric.  “I love it,”  his voice comes out muffled, but Graves understands him anyway, “Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome.”  He draws swirling patterns onto Credence’s skin, thinking.  “Say,”  he says,  “How would you like the come to work with me?”  It would solve a few problems, from Credence’s loneliness, to soothing Graves’ worries about Grindelwald returning to his home to find Credence served up on a silver platter.

Not that he’s worried that Credence can’t take care of himself.  He would just prefer if it wasn’t the obscurus fighting off Grindelwald, but Credence himself.  He has the potential to be a powerful wizard.  Graves has seen the spells he performs when he feels comfortable enough to do them.  Credence still looks awkward holding his wand—like he doesn’t know what to do with it—but he’s mastered summoning spells, and is pretty good at brewing a strong cup of tea using only magic.

“Really?”  Credence asks, turning around to face him, eyes so hopeful, he curses himself for not asking sooner.

“Yes, really.”

“Then yes, I want to come with you.”

“We won’t be spending a lot of time together,”  Graves warns.

Credence shakes his head.  “I don’t care, I want to come.”

“Okay.”  Graves nods.  “I just need to teach you one thing.  You’ve heard of the Patronus charm?”

“It’s a defensive spell that manifests into whatever animals best represents the caster,”  Credence recites,  “It can also be used to send messages and warnings.”

“Exactly.”  He climbs off the scroll, moving to sit by Credence’s legs where they’re curled under his body.  “I want you to know it, so if you need me to come to you, cast it, and I will find you.”

Credence nods solemnly.

“Okay, stand up,”  Graves urges, climbing to his feet, Credence following.  “Brace your feet against the floor like this.”

Graves demonstrates the proper stance, correcting an elbow and the awkward placement of a foot.  He holds his hands to Credence’s cheeks and tells him to close his eyes.

“Now, I need you to think of the happiest you have ever been.  Hold the memory, and I want you to relive it in your mind.”  Graves steps back, noticing the divot between Credence’s eyebrows.  “Do you have something?”

“I think so?”  Credence says, his voice wavering just like the hand holding his wand.

“Don’t worry about it, you don’t have to tell me what it is.  Picture this memory in your mind—you know the incantation?”

“Expecto patronum.”

“The wand movement is a small circle, with your wrist not your whole arm.  I need you to breath in and out.”

Credence does, his chest moving up and down, the picture of relaxation.

“Now.”

Credence inhales, then says the incantation,  “ _Expecto Patronum_.”

Nothing happens.  Credence opens his eyes, looking disappointed.

Graves says,  “No one gets it on their first try.  Would you like to think of another memory?”  Credence purses his lips, but nods.

He’s concentrating so hard on making sure Credence is breathing right, he doesn’t even see it coming.

The moment Credence says the incantation a deafening crack echoes and Graves is blown back, a force hitting him smack in the chest, flinging him clear across the room.  He lands spread eagle on the far wall, sliding to the ground in a pained heap.  A bright red light explodes in a wave, sending out shrapnel like a hail of bullets.  Graves hisses as it cuts into his skin.

“Credence!”  Graves shouts, ears ringing.

The smoke clears and Credence stands in the centre, unharmed except for the smoking remains of his wand.

It’s nothing more than ash and cinder, glowing faintly like a fire just put out.  It crumbles, falling to the carpet, but Credence doesn’t seem to care one bit.  His eyes are wide as he looks at Graves, and he drops the remains of his wand.

“Percival,”  he whispers, his hand outstretched as he stumbles across the room, he falls to his knees at Graves’ feet, uncaring of the shattered glass on the floor.   _Oh_ , he blew out the windows too.  “What have I done?”

Graves tries to find words to tell him that he’s alright, but something drips into his eye.  Wiping it away, his hand comes back red with blood.  Credence grabs at his hand, pulling it to his chest.  His ears ring, so he cannot hear the words Credence is saying, but his mouth is moving frantically.  Graves once again tries to tell him he’s fine, but the words must come out slurred since Credence does not look even remotely reassured.

The ringing fades away to Credence praying.

“Lord, please don’t take him from me.  He is a blessing you bestowed, and I need him, I know I shouldn’t, but I do.  Please keep him, I am yours to command.”

“Cre...,”  Graves mumbles, but Credence’s eyes are focused skyward.

“I am your faithful servant, Lord.  Heal him, please, let your light shine upon him and heal him of all injury.”

Graves gasps as he feels something shift within his body.  The stabbing pain in his chest fades and he’s finally able to breathe.  He touches his side in wonder, did he break a rib?  How did he not notice?  Most importantly—

“Credence,”  he breathes.

“I would do anything for him, Lord.  You know my sins, let your righteous anger strike me in his stead, never him.”

His forehead feels warm, and the pain is gone from there too.  Credence keeps praying, whispering promises and wishes.  Graves knows his god isn’t answering, something else is happening.

His magic.  Credence’s magic is flowing from his lips, manifesting in the words he’s using to pray Graves back together.

“Credence,”  he says again,  “Stop.”

And he does.

“Sweet Credence,”  Graves says in wonder, reaching out and drawing him into his arms.  

His body is limp like a ragdoll, and he drapes himself over Graves like his strings have been cut.  

Wandless magic, conduit magic.  There are stories of renowned wizards experiencing worse horrors and performing feats that pale in comparison to the magic that Credence just did.  “How?”

_My ribs were broken, nothing but Skele-gro can heal broken bones._

“ _Percival_ ,”  Credence sobs desperately into his neck, clinging to him.

***

Graves leans against his headboard, fingers combing through Credence’s hair as he sleeps.

Graves repaired his study as best as he could, well, he fixed the hole his body made in the wall.  Dolly had left the house before the incident, so she wasn't there help him with repairing the delicate glass.  He’s not good at spells that precise, the best he could do was sweep up the shards so they wouldn’t hurt anyone.  Again, at least.

The glass had done a number on Credence’s knees.  Graves helped as best as he could, he picked out the glass and cleaned the wounds, but he couldn’t heal him as well as Grindelwald could.

His magic is defensive—always has been.  During the Great War, Graves had been useless at healing spells.  Sure he could take care of the occasional blister or small cut, but any wound that needed a steady hand, Basile took care of it.

With magic fingers and a gentle touch, he could heal anything, and the boys trusted him to take care of them.  But it wasn’t always that way.  In the beginning, there was so much hostility and distrust of his magic.

Among wizards who wield wands, wandless magic is a sign of great power.  Yet, a wizard who has never wielded a wand is often feared.  Wandless magic can be volatile, which is why so many distrust those who perform all their magic without a wand.

Basile’s hands never shook when he healed wounds.  His magic is unwavering and strong, never wild or volatile.  Wandless magic is only ever dangerous when it’s magic without a wand, instead of just magic using one’s own body as a conduit.

Graves can still remember the ache in his legs as he ran through a deep, dark forest.  The distant but horrifically close thundering of artillery following their company.  Theseus had been in front of him, and Graves’ heart had lodged in his throat as he watched the man he loved dodging spells and returning fire.

He had been so terrified, but not only for his own life.  He had feared Theseus dying in his arms, like so many of his friends before.  Vicious wounds caused by vicious spells cast by vicious wizards.

Graves had lost a comrade that day: Peter Dunnigan.  He had been a good man.  Carried a picture of his wife in his front breast pocket, and shared his rations with those in need.

That night Graves had curled in a huddle with the other boys as he wrote a letter to Peter’s widow.  The boy who was closest to Peter wouldn’t stop crying as he clutched his dead friend’s wand to his chest, so Graves had to write the letter.

Even now, he cannot recall what he wrote, if he was kind enough, or if his letter had been cold and impersonal.  Graves had still been processing everything that happened.

He would have died as Peter had, if it wasn’t for Basile.

Peter had taken a bullet to the skull as they approached what they believed to be an abandoned town.  Instead of a dark wizard, the killer had been a scared no-maj farmer, striking back at the strange people invading his countryside, killing people with sickly green light.  He didn’t know their company was there to stop the people hurting them.

The second bullet fired had entered Graves stomach, and still, to this day he has never felt anything as painful.

They had pulled him from the fray, into the cover of woods.  Theseus had attempted to staunch the bleeding, a grim look on his face.  Graves had been coughing up Merlin knows what, screaming in agony.  He remembers in spurts of colour, intercepted with the blackness of passing out from pain, then waking up again, still in agony

Basile had knelt by his side, expression smooth of all emotion, as he looked Graves over.  He had run his hands over him, and then—blessed relief.  He no longer tasted blood on his lips, he breathed without feeling like it was tearing open the hole in himself.

Basile had helped him stand, legs still quivering.  One of the boys had stared at them with tears streaming down his cheeks, and a wand not his own clutched to his chest.  He yelled, and demanded that Basile heal Peter too.  When Basile said it was impossible, that Peter was already dead, he stomped and furied.  He pushed Basile and screamed, “Freak Injun!”

They all stood by and said nothing.

Months after the war had ended, he received the book in the mail.  Graves had read the inscription, and then he read the whole book.

_‘Graves, for when you realize a wand doesn’t make a wizard, —B. Tremblay.’_

He combs his fingers through silky, black hair and decides to ask Basile if he would teach Credence conduit magic.

He has to leave for Boston soon, but when he returns, he’ll talk to Basile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, this is the same Sanguini from Slughorn’s Christmas party. Though his fashion choices remain much the same, in the 90s he’s mostly moved away from criminal exploits. Though, he still deals in information.
> 
> Conduit magic is a term I made up, in canon it's only called wandless magic. I wanted another term that practitioners of that kind of magic would use, since "wandless" magic implies that the standard is magic cast with a wand. (I just have a whole bunch of problems with Rowling's generalization of Indigenous wizarding culture, especially how monolithic she makes it seem. Also what ever happened to colonialism??) 
> 
> So yeah... Let's say the next chapter will up on the 16th or 17th.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can I just say, this is my favourite chapter so far, and I hope all of you enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it. The first part made me giggle like a highschooler reading Cosmo sex tips, I am so embarrassed, but if you knew the research I did for this chapter… well, let’s just say that Victorian erotic periodicals have quite a lot of flowery language…
> 
> Some warnings for this chapter include alcohol consumption for the explicit purpose of getting drunk off one’s ass.

_My hand slipped along the curve of his back.  Muscles, strong enough to tear me to pieces, vibrated beneath my ministration.  Softly, oh so softly, my hand began to travel even lower, towards—_

“Credence have you seen my enameled tie pin?”

Credence looks up from the magazine.  Percival stands in front of his suitcase, hands on his hips, a furrow between his brows.

“I think you left it on the bathroom sink,”  Credence says.  Percival huffs and walks out of his bedroom, returning a few seconds later with the pin.

“Thank you.”

Credence nods.  The kraft paper hiding the front cover crinkles as he returns to the story.  Percival continues to pack for his trip, stretching the limits of the extension charm placed on his suitcase.  He’s only going for a few days, yet he insists on bringing most of his wardrobe with him.  Credence looks down, finding the line he just left.

— _bliss.  He released a delightful sigh of anticipation as I placed my hand on his supple buttocks—_

“Damnit!”  Percival exclaims, and Credence looks up, just in time to see Percival bend over to pick up a fallen tie, his slacks stretched tight over the swell of his….  Credence casts his gaze to the page, heat swirling over his cheeks.

_—the curve I desired to bite like a juicy peach.  “Oh!  James, my darling!  I must kiss you, let me taste your ardour, love.”  I exclaimed in desperation.  I buried my face—_

“I just cannot believe the nerve of some people!”  Percival exclaims, throwing a pair of socks into his case.  “If Jauncey thinks he can submit his application for retirement that easily, he has another thing coming!”  Percival undoes the top buttons of his shirt, glaring off at some distant enemy.  His neck stretches long, a bit of shaving foam that Credence must have missed, clings to the pale skin beneath his ear.  He shifts his eyes.

_—into his long elegant neck.  The tip of my tongue drawing a groan from his strawberry sweet mouth.  “Timothy,”  he hissed my name in pleasure, “Oh, dearest, I feel... I can stand this desire no longer.  Please, take my cock in your—_

Percival sighs, an apology in his tone,  “I’m sorry for yelling, my sweet.”

_—mouth, your cherry lips wrapped around my thick prick would give me pleasure like no other.”  His beautiful face blushed in anticipation, I—_

“It’s fine, Percival,”  Credence whispers,  “I wasn’t startled.”

— _ran my tongue over my bottom lip, eager—_

“It hasn't been a good few days, and now I have to leave you.  I must go to Boston...”  Credence feels the bed move as Percival sits on the edge.  “...But I will miss you so much.”

_—to sheathe his manhood between my soft pillows.  I brought his virile cock to my mouth, rolling my velvet tongue over the—_

Credence feels Percival taking his ankle in hand, his grip sturdy as he runs his thumb across the delicate bone.  His calluses are rough from wielding his long wand, and they scrape his skin, sending shivers down his spine.  Credence slowly wets his lips.

_—blushing head.  I eagerly sucked him down, drinking him like he was water from a spring—_

“Are you thirsty, Credence?”  Percival asks.  “I can conjure you something to drink, if you’d like?  Maybe some juice?”

Credence tears his eyes from the magazine.  Percival’s head is tilted, a perfectly innocent smile on his lips.  His shirt sleeves are rolled so Credence can see the veins on his arms, the dark hair.  He has absolutely no idea about the filth Credence is reading.

He shifts on the bed.  “Sorry?”  Credence asks, forgetting what Percival asked.

Percival chuckles.  “What are you reading that’s caught your attention so?  I’ve never seen you so focused.”

Credence slams the magazine shut, hugging it tight to his chest as he stares at Percival with wide eyes.  “Gardening periodical,”  he mumbles.

“You should let me look at it after, if it interests you so.”

“It’s very dry,”  Credence sputters,  “You wouldn’t enjoy it.”

“I daresay I’d enjoy anything that interests you.”

He tightens his arms.  “It’s not that good, actually.”

Percival smiles quizzically.  “If you say so.”  He pats Credence’s leg before walking to his suitcase and snapping the clasps shut.  “You’re all packed, right?”

“Yes, Percival.”  He nods, one of his fingers pulls at a loose thread on the spread.  “Thank you for asking Queenie to have me.  Dolly’s good company, but she isn’t here at night, and I don’t want to be alone, not with him on the loose.”

“Queenie adores you, it wasn’t a hardship.”

Credence smiles and climbs off the bed, as Percival picks up his suitcase.  They walk down the stairs together, the floor creaking beneath Credence’s bare feet.  Credence’s bag sits by the fireplace, along with his shoes, ready to go.  He opens the flap, and tucks the magazine inside.

Percival’s leather brogues fly from the foyer, and he sits in an arm chair, lacing them.  Fixing himself up, Percival finally slides into a dark navy jacket, looking as impeccable as ever.  Credence loves that he lets himself be undone around him, but still cannot bear to leave the house with a single hair out of place.  

“I can’t help but worry about you, Credence.”  Percival smooths down his trouser legs, looking up at him from under his lashes.

“You’ll only be gone a few days, I’ll be fine.”  Credence curls on the other armchair, one hand draping off the side.  Percival grabs it, and brings it to his lips, kissing his fingers.

“Of course you’ll be fine.”  His soft lips glide over his knuckles.  “Promise me you won’t do anything reckless?”

He wants to throw his arms around Percival’s neck, but resists.  The floo flares to life, and Tina’s head appears within the depths.  “I promise.”

***

“I was thinking we could spend the day in Central Park.  Jacob will meet us there.”  Queenie says as Credence dusts ash from his hair, the fire behind them fading back to red.

“Does he know about me?  I don't want him to think… well, because I'm a man,”  he sputters awkwardly.  “I just don't want him to get the wrong idea about us.”

Queenie waves her hand.  “There's no need to worry.  Jacob is not a jealous man.”

“That's not the point, Queenie,”  Credence says wisely, placing his bag by the couch transfigured into a bed,  “He might still care that you have a male friend.”

“Oh honey, it’s sweet that you care so much, but there’s really nothing for you to worry about, I swear.”  Over to the kitchen Queenie goes.  Her wand weaves spells, magic kneading and baking bread.  “Would you like mustard on your roast beef sandwich?  Tina adores the stuff, so I usually keep a jar in the pantry.”

Credence sits at the dining table.  “I’d like that.”

With the sandwiches packed away in a wicker basket, Credence waits for Queenie to change.  He eyes his bag, wondering if he has enough time to read a few more passages from the magazine, but Queenie calls for him.

He finds her in her bedroom, sitting at her dressing table, two tubes of lipstick in hand, and her hair freshly curled.  There’s another chair beside her, so Credence sits.

“Which one, do you think?”  She asks, holding up a tube of a peachy pink, and a darker one, almost the colour of a plum.  He’s never seen Queenie wear such a dark colour before, but her dress is almost the same dark colour.  He points to the plum, figuring it would match her outfit.  “Ooo, good choice.”

Queenie selects a brush.  Swiping it over the tube of lipstick, she picks up the dark pigments.  Tracing the outline of her lips, she creates a cupid’s bow, then fills in the rest.  She places her finger in her mouth and sucks on it, to Credence’s puzzlement.  When she pulls it out, a ring of dark plum stains her pale skin.

“To make sure I don’t have any colour on my teeth,”  she explains, waving her wand, and vanishing the stain.  She applies rouge to her cheeks, as Credence looks through the plethora of cosmetics on her table.

He picks up a bottle of hair tonic.  A picture of a woman with long wavy hair, curling in a pile her feet, smiles back at him as she brushes her thick mane.  The bottle indicates that it’s meant to strengthen and lengthen hair.

“Would like to try some?”  Queenie asks.  “I noticed you’re growing out your hair, perhaps you’d like to see what it would look like for the day?”

“It doesn’t last?”

“It will until you shampoo.”  She takes the bottle from him.  “How long would you like it?”

Credence taps a finger against his chin in thought.  “To my shoulders?”

Queenie pours only a few drops into her palms.  Rubbing it between her hands, she then runs her fingers through Credence’s hair, massaging the tonic into his scalp.  He closes his eyes, loving the feeling of her fingers and nails scratching at his skin.

“There,”  Queenie says, pulling back.  Credence opens his eyes, and gasps at what he sees in the mirror.  His hair is thick and long—longer than it’s ever been before.  He reaches up and tugs on a curl, marveling at the bounce of it.

“I have to send you back to the Director like this, you look simply marvelous.”

“I don’t think Percival likes long hair, especially not on men,”  Credence says.  Percival is always so eager to get his hair trimmed at the barber’s whenever it shows even a hint of growth.

She pushes a strand of hair behind his ear, smiling.  “We’ll just have to agree to disagree on that one, Credence.”

***

“How do you like the magazines I gave you, honey?”  Queenie asks as they sit on a bench beneath a flowering magnolia.  Petals drift in the breeze, carrying with them a cloying floral scent.  Credence brushes one off his lap as he looks down, feeling his face flood with blood.

“They’re different from the one you gave me before.”

Queenie giggles, poking him lightly in the shoulder.  “I thought you would like these ones better, figured they’d be more to your taste.  Were they?”

Credence thinks of the magazine he still has tucked away in his bag, and the others folded amongst his clothes back home.  “They are.  But where did you get them, Queenie?  I cannot imagine you buying them off the street.  Wouldn’t the censors shut down the publisher?”

Queenie shakes her head as Credence turns to look at her.  Her hands brace against the edge of the bench as she kicks her legs.  A woman in a long dress carrying a parasol walks by, glaring at Queenie from the corner of her eye.

Queenie’s rouged knees, while charming, must seem very inappropriate to polite society.  Credence thinks she looks as pretty as ever.

“Oh how I love your compliments, you’re just so darling.”  She pats his cheek with her soft fingers, before her expression grows serious.  “Credence, you have to realize that things are different in the wizarding world.  Conservatism and no-maj religions do not govern our morality, at least not for the vast majority of us—the twelve families are an entirely different matter.  But, for the rest of us, so long as no dark magic or no-majs are involved, we are free to do what we want, write what we want, love who we want.”

“But the government—”

“MACUSA does not criminalize inversion.  Although they are backwards in many other respects, criminalizing the inversion of their citizens is not a priority.  Many of us still hide, especially if we desire a career in a field dominated by descendants of the twelve, but some don’t.”

“What do you do, Queenie?”

Queenie winks.  “I had a few female lovers during my years at Ilvermorny, I never hid that.  I just don’t advertise it now, especially not at MACUSA, after what happened to auror Lopez.”

“Magda, Percival’s auror?”  Credence asks with raised brows.  “She likes women?”

“Oh yes, very much so.  If you could hear what she thinks about Magali Crowe’s behind, you would never be able to look her in the eye again, she has a _vivid_ imagination.”

“And Percival is fine with that?”  Credence asks, his tone hopeful.

Queenie tilts her head.  “What do you mean by that…?”  Her eyes widen when she hears what he’s thinking.  She looks at him sadly.  “Of course he won’t hate you, Credence.  I doubt he could ever hate you.  He loves you so much, you must know that.”

“I love him too, I just…”  Credence swallows nervously, balling his hands on his thighs.  “...wish he loved me the same way I love him.”

“Oh honey, you don’t want to tell him how you feel?”

Credence shakes his head so fast it feels like his brain rattles.  “I couldn’t do that.  What if he says no?  What if he feels uncomfortable around me after?”

Credence doesn’t think he could bear it if Percival never held him again, or allowed him to sleep in the same bed as him, or even kissed him because he felt inconvenienced by Credence’s desire for him.

Queenie frowns, before her eyes slide to the side, over his shoulder.  She smiles brighter than he has ever seen before.  “Jacob’s here.”

Credence turns around.  “Where?”  Queenie points out a portly gentlemen in a simple shirt and waistcoat.  He sees Queenie looking and waves his hand at her.

She whispers lowly.  “You can't tell anyone about him, not even the Director.”

“What?”  Credence blinks, taken aback.  “Why?”

She bites her bottom lip, chewing on it a moment, before saying,  “He's not a wizard.  He's a no-maj.”

“Queenie!”  Credence exclaims in surprise, eyes wide, mouth falling open.

Jacob walks over to them, a thin moustache over his top lip and a hand tucked into his pant pocket.

“Hello there, you must be Credence!  It's great to finally meet you.  Queenie won't stop talking about you.”  Jacob holds his hand out, and Credence, helpless in the face of such good manners, shakes it.

“My oh my, what a grip you've got there,”  Jacob says with a brilliant smile.  “You've got strong arms.  I bet you anything your legs are just as tough.”

“Uh...”

Jacob turns to Queenie with a confused smile.  “Didn't you tell him what we're doing today?”

“No, she didn't.”  Credence sends Queenie an accusatory glance, before turning back to Jacob, a polite smile on his lips, even as fear for Queenie’s decision to involve herself with a no-maj, grows in his chest.  “What are we doing?”

***

“Isn't this fun, Credence?”  Queenie giggles, soaring away on her rented bicycle.  Credence still struggles to remain upright.

“Yes.  Fun,”  he states, watching Jacob and Queenie together.  They look so happy, and Credence tries desperately not to think about the repercussions for breaking the Statute of Secrecy, so not to ruin the day.  Jacob obviously knows nothing about about magic, and Queenie keeps her wand hidden away, but it’s plain to see how infatuated he is with her.

“Cheer up! You'll get the hang of it,”  Jacob skids his bicycle to a stop.  “Here, let me help you out, and soon you’ll be flying on by.”  Jacob leans his bicycle against a nearby tree, and grabs hold of the handlebars on Credence’s.

He begins pulling it forwards, and Credence startles, holding on tight.  Jacob runs and steadily gains speed as they overtake Queenie.  The wind blows Credence’s long hair out of his face, and his pulse races.  He finds himself grinning wide.  

The moment Jacob lets go, Credence lets out an unholy shriek.  Grabbing tight the handlebars, he wrestles back control—somehow now steering a moving machine with just his hands.

With his legs working fast the pedals, as Queenie showed him, Credence throws his head back, loving the feeling of freedom and the wind in his hair.

The path is narrow, but long and seems to stretch on forever.  He pedals hard and fast, hearing Queenie calling out for him to slow down, but he doesn’t, he cannot find it in himself to give this up.  Credence doesn’t remember the last time he had fun like this.

Letting out a loud shout, he pedals even faster.

He rounds the corner, and something catches on the wheel.  Swerving, he feels his heart launch into throat as he loses control of the bicycle.  With his pulse thumping in his ears, Credence tries to steer clear of the grassy bank, but it’s too late.

He flies straight down the hill, bicycle and all, right into the duck pond.

Somewhere, a duck squawks indignantly.  As he sits in the shallow water, his behind submerged in pond mud, he thinks that duck cannot possibly be having as worse a time as he now is.

Jacob emerges over the hill, and begins running down towards him, worry on his face.  Before he can even ask if he is alright, Credence throws his head back and just laughs.  If he was told a year ago that he would be sitting in a pond in Central Park due to a combination of magic, bad luck, but also the best of luck, Credence would not believe it

As it is, he’s in stitches, his sides hurting as Jacob offers his hand to help him up.

“You know,”  Jacob says sheepishly, helping him remove his soaked necktie, before it strangles him,  “When I said that you’ll soon be flying, I didn’t mean literally.”

Credence laughs so hard, he slips, and falls back into the water.

Later, after a discrete cleaning spell to remove the worst of the mud, Credence sits on a picnic blanket.  A towel, transfigured out of view by Queenie from a napkin, is wrapped around his shoulders, keeping him warm and decent.  His shirt and trousers hang over a nearby branch, drying in the sun, likely also sped along by a whispered spell or two.

Jacob munches on a sandwich, gesturing wildly as he relates a story about his assistant, Henry, misplacing the storeroom keys, then accidentally baking them into a cake.

“Henry’s a good egg, he wants to learn, but oh boy, is he ever scatterbrained.”  Jacob finishes his sandwich, praising and thanking Queenie, until she blushes a pretty pink.

Even if their relationship is discovered, and it will bring her nothing but pain, Credence finds himself unable to hate Jacob.  He’s such a genuinely likeable man.  It’s dangerous, what they’re doing.  If they’re discovered, Queenie will go to jail, and Jacob—he’ll lose his memories of Queenie at the end of an obliviator’s wand.

He meets Queenie’s eye.  When she quickly looks away again, Credence knows she heard every single word.

***

Jacob chats with the man renting the bicycles as Credence and Queenie sit on a bench in silence.

A nearby dog barks, chasing after their owner with a wagging tail and stick in their mouth.  Children play nearby, he can hear their shrieking and laughter.  It’s a beautiful day, regardless of the heaviness that hangs over the two of them.

He is the first to break the silence.  He watches Jacob talk his way out of the water-logging the bicycle took when Credence drove into the pond, saying,  “I like him a lot, Queenie.”

“I know you do,”  she says, her voice cracking slightly,  “It’s impossible not to like him.”

“It will be difficult,”  he says.

“I know.”

“If they find out about him, you’ll go to jail and they’ll obliviate him.”

“I know.”  Queenie sniffs, whispering,  “They did it before.”

Credence snaps his head to her so fast, his neck cracks.  “What?”

“He was in the subway, Credence, after you… well.  He was there all along, by my side.  He knew everything, about magic, about our world, about me, but then the rain fell and it took him away from me.”  She wipes a tear from the corner of her eye, expression resolute.  “I’m just taking him back.”

Credence leans closer.  “You don’t think you’re deceiving him by not telling him?”  He’s not saying Queenie should tell him, but if he was in Jacob’s position, he would want to know if he had already fallen in love with the person he was falling in love with again.

“I think he remembers in his own way.  He was bitten by a murtlap, and the venom must have had a reaction with the rain.  He owns a bakery, and bakes his creations in the shapes of the creatures he saw in Newt’s suitcase, and I think he somewhat remembers me.”

“What do you mean?”

“When he first saw me at the bakery, it was like he couldn’t look away.”

Credence states the obvious,  “Because you’re beautiful, Queenie.”

“That’s not it.  I know what lust looks like, and that wasn’t it.”  She looks away, into the distance as she says,  “And his thoughts… Sometimes it’s like he _knows_.”

Jacob meanders back over to them, and the conversation quickly ends.  “The good news is that I get my deposit back…”  He trails off.  “Are you two crying?”

“No!”  Both Queenie and Credence exclaim at the same time.

“Of course not,”  Jacob says slowly, puzzled.

***

The three of them walk through the streets, wasting the minutes before it’s time for Jacob to return to his bakery.  According to him, there’s only so much time he trusts his assistant to keep the shop in working order, before the worry starts to eat at him, and he must return.

A sign catches Credence’s eye.  He has walked past it countless times before while handing out Ma’s pamphlets, but he’s never gone inside.

“Let’s go,”  Queenie says to Jacob before winking at Credence, pulling both of them towards the bookstore.

As they enter, Credence is faced with a poster of a man in exotic garb, thick kohl rimming his eyes.  The man pulls open his shirt, revealing crisscrossed scars across his chest to a blonde woman kneeling at his feet, her hands together as if in prayer.

Jacob and Queenie wander off together, while Credence remains transfixed by the poster and the man with scars similar to his own—though his lie on his back.  He picks up one of the books stacked on a table nearby.  Reading the description on the back, it doesn’t seem nearly as romantic as the poster makes it out to be.  The man with the scars is a villain—as far as Credence can tell—and yet he’s still characterized as the romantic lead.

“Has anyone ever told you that you look an awful lot like Rudolph Valentino?”  He looks up to see a salesgirl leaning her hip against the table, a coy smile on her lips, her name tag declaring her Vera.  “Your eyes, especially.  Tell me, are you related?”

“Not that I know,”  Credence says, putting down the book.  Maybe he is related to Rudolph Valentino, Credence wouldn’t know, he has no idea who is birth parents are.

Vera points to the book.  “Have you read the first one?”

He shakes his head.

“You should,”  Vera says, picking up a different book, handing it over.  Glancing at the abstract, Credence decides this one is maybe even worse than the other one.  Not wanting to hurt Vera’s feelings, as she looks so excited, he nods his head in thanks.

She sighs, blinking her lashes.  “I never see men reading romance novels.  They always buy books off the _Publishers Weekly_ list, they have no taste of their own.  I bet you’re different.”

“I do enjoy romantic stories,”  Credence admits, though he is smart enough to not mention what kind of romances he prefers.  “Do you have any recommendations?”  He asks, and Vera visibly brightens.

“Come with me, I’ll show you my favourite section in the store.”  She takes him by the arm and leads him through the stacks to a corner, tucked far out of sight.  She runs her finger along the spines of the books.  “Since you seemed interested in E.M. Hull’s writing, perhaps you will also enjoy—here we go—Elinor Glyn.”  She picks several novels off the shelves, handing them to Credence.

Credence takes the books, holding them in a stack balanced to his chest.

“Do you prefer tragedies, or happy endings?”  Vera asks, tapping a finger against her chin.  “Personally, I’m fond of a good unhappy ending.”

“A good unhappy ending?”  Credence echoes back.  “How could a good ending be unhappy, isn’t that contradictory?”

Vera smiles.  “You’ll just have to find out then, won’t you?  Personally _Three Weeks_ is my favourite, it’s even better than _The Sheik_.”

Queenie finds him at the counter, Vera ringing up his purchases with the money Percival gave him to spend on whatever catches his fancy.  Books are expensive, but Credence doesn’t think Percival would mind him spending money on them.

Queenie leans on the counter.  Picking up _The Sheik_ , she makes a face, then puts it down again.

Credence frowns at her.  “What?”  He asks.

“Nothing,”  She says, handing the book over to Vera so she can pack it up.  “You’ll have to read it to find out.”

***

“This is a terrible book,”  Credence remarks, as he’s stretched comfortably on an armchair.  He makes a face and turns _The Sheik_ over in his lap.

Queenie doesn’t even look up from her typewriter.  “It really is.  Didn’t you read the back?”

“I didn’t think it would be this bad.  Why do people like it?”  Why did Vera like it?  She seems like a nice enough girl, and this story is nothing but abusive and violent.  It’s the opposite of romantic.

“They like it because it’s exotic—though not too exotic—and because Diana is rebellious.  No-maj women more often than not live under the thumb of powerful men.  That book characterizes an unconventional woman who takes control of her own destiny.  A powerful woman to be feared and respected.”  Queenie feeds a new sheet of paper into her typewriter.  “At least at first.  The ending, and much of the book, throws the original concept out the window, and leaves much to be desired.”

Credence closes it, and places it to the side.  Hopefully the rest of Vera’s recommendations aren’t as bad.  He gets up and stretches, walking over to Queenie.

“What are you writing?”  He asks, slipping into the other chair at the dining table.

Queenie clacks away at her typewriter, a notepad in front of her that her eyes shift to every other second.  “Typing up my newest short story,”  she says distractedly,  “It’s about a Veela who meets a Siren one evening as she walks along the coast.  The Siren cannot decide if she wants to drown the Veela or let her live.  They both enchant each other—with beauty or song—until neither can tell if what they grow to feel for each other is true, or a spell.”

“That sounds so sad,”  Credence says.

Queenie bites her bottom lip, brow furrowing as she types.  “Some love stories are.”

***

The woman kicks her leg out and throws her arms back in the same move.  The tassles on her dress twirl in the air.  Credence wonders how she manages to stay upright without falling down.  Whatever dance she’s doing, it looks dangerous, as her partner flails just as much.

The music swells in a crescendo and he taps his shoe along to the beat.  He sips the drink Queenie handed to him.  It’s sweet, like what he used to dream cola tasted like, but there’s a hint of something else in it that reminds him of gigglewater.

“Are you enjoying yourself, honey?”  Queenie asks, sliding up to him, putting a hand on his shoulder.  Her hips still sway to the beat, but all her attention is on him.  “Are you sure you don’t want to dance?”

Credence shakes his head, and a strand of long hair falls over his brow, tickling him.  Before they came to the no-maj speakeasy, Credence had smoothed the hair growth tonic though his hair.  Partially, because Jacob is here with them, but also because he loves having longer hair.

He swipes the long strands back, resisting the urge to rub his eyes, remembering the kohl Queenie smudged over them.  Vera had told him he looked like Rudolph Valentino, and in the movie poster he wore very handsome makeup, so Credence figured what could be the harm.

He wears the lovely green sweater Percival bought for him.  Queenie cast a cooling charm on it so he doesn’t get too hot, but Credence adores the fit.  It suits him perfectly, and he loves how Percival was able to buy it without knowing his exact measurements.

“Credence, you must dance with us.”  Jacob’s shiny shoes slide along the wooden floor.  “You’re the only one sitting this song out, you wouldn’t want to insult the band, do you?”  He bends forward shaking his hips joyfully and Queenie laughs, doing the same.

Credence chuckles.  “I’m fine here.  I think I’d prefer something slower.”

Jacob winks.  “With a lucky someone?  My oh my, now I’m the jealous one.”  Jacob snaps his fingers to the beat, doing a graceful spin.  He holds his hand out to Queenie.  “If you wouldn’t mind, my lady, Credence has denied me, but would you kindly take my offer?”

Queenie grins so widely, Credence thinks her face might be in danger of splitting open.  She slips her hand into his.  “I would love to, Jacob.”

Credence watches them move along the dance floor.  Jacob is an amazing dancer, and Queenie holds her own against him.  They fit in with the other couples, and Credence admires everyone’s ability to not whack each other on the face while moving.

_“Rudolph?”_

Credence looks up to see Vera from the bookstore, her hand on a handsome man’s arm.  She looks beautiful wearing a simple rayon dress, her face done up with vibrant colours.

“It is you!  I thought I recognized that smoulder.”  She turns to her partner who looks over Credence with dark eyes, a faint smile on the corner of his lips.  “This is the customer I was telling you about, the one who bought five books.  Doesn’t he look so much like Rudolph Valentino?”

The man holds his hand out, eyes twinkling under dark eyebrows.  “How do you do.”

Credence takes the offered hand, shaking it.  The man squeezes for a second too long, before letting him go.

“This is my brother, Leland,”  Vera says,  “He’s a big admirer of Mr. Valentino.”

“One would say, the biggest,”  Leland says with hooded eyes.

“That’s nice,”  Credence says, his throat suddenly dry with the way Leland looks at him.  He takes a sip from his glass and nearly chokes when Leland’s gaze shifts from his eyes to his throat.

“What are you doing here?”  Vera asks, tearing him away from Leland’s almost physical hold.  “I don’t mean to be rude, but I figured you were rich enough to attend parties in mansions, not speakeasies for the working class.”  

“Perhaps he has a patron, darling sis.”

A blush settles over Credence’s face.  He does have a patron of sorts, but not at all what Leland is suggesting—or what he’s read in a few of the stories Queenie gave him.  Percival is not at all interested in men, though he also doesn’t seem interested in women for that matter.

“I’m here with friends,”  he says, nodding to Queenie and Jacob on the dance floor.

Vera’s brows rise in recognition.  “The blonde.  I thought she was your squeeze?”

This time Credence does choke on his drink.  He shakes his head.  “I’m not with anybody.”

“That’s a shame,”  she says,  “Though, you should get along swimmingly with Leland.  He cannot seem to find anyone he likes enough to marry.  It frustrates Mama to no end.”  Her gaze is drawn across the room to a man in a soldier’s uniform waving at her.  “Speaking of liking someone,” she whispers, determination in her tone, “You must excuse me.”

Before she can march off, Leland grabs her arm, stopping her.  He reaches into his breast pocket, pulling out a tin, which he hands to his sister, a serious look on his face.  “If he doesn’t have his own, you make sure he wears this.”

Vera huffs, her face going red.  “Really, Leland, in front of company?”  She swipes the tin from him anyway and strides off.

“Can’t have her catching something European.”  Leland sits down in the chair beside him, leaning back and crossing his legs.  He looks at Credence unnervingly.  He doesn’t know if he likes the attention, or not.  “You’re so beautiful,”  Leland says, bracing a hand against his chin,  “But then again, you must already know that.  How many men have told you that before?”

Credence clutches his hands to his knees nervously, creasing the fabric.  “Only one.”

Percival has never explicitly said he was beautiful.  He has called him handsome before, but they way he looks at Credence some days, it makes him feel beautiful.

“I find that hard to believe.”  Leland leans closer.  To anyone else they look like two men trying to have an innocent conversation in a loud room, but Credence can feel the heat of Leland’s breath on his cheek, and it feels the opposite of innocent.  “What about your patron?  Unless, he is the one?”

“He is,”  Credence whispers.

Leland hums and Credence can practically feel the vibrations against his skin.

“Is your patron a jealous man?

“Why?”  Credence croaks.  His skin feels as if it is on fire, and he already knows what Leland’s answer will be.

“Because, _Rudolph_ , I think I should like to take you behind this building, drop to my knees, and have you find pleasure in my mouth.”

“Oh,”  Credence breathes, not knowing what to say to such a proposition.  How to explain that he doesn’t know if Percival would be jealous, or disgusted, or if he would even care at all.  Their relationship isn’t like that, even though Credence wishes dearly for it.

Leland must read something conflicted in his expression, because he pulls away with an apologetic smile.  “I did not mean to make you feel uncomfortable—”

“You haven’t,”  Credence rushes to reassure,  “But I’m in love with someone else, and I only want him.”

“Love.”  Leland smiles at him, eyebrows raised in surprise.  “Truely?  How wonderful.”

Credence licks his lips.  “I don’t think he wants me as I want him.”

Leland looks at him strangely, then throws his head back and laughs.  “Oh darling, you are too blind.”  He wipes a tear from the corner of his eye.  Gesturing to Credence’s outfit, he asks,  “Did he purchase this for you?”

Credence nods.

“Did he give you money for the many books my sister said you bought?”

“Yes.”

“Then trust me, he wants you too.  No man would spend that much money on someone he doesn’t want to fuck.”

Credence looks at Leland with wide eyes—both at the revelation behind his words and the expletive.

Leland leans further away from Credence, relaxing back in his chair.  “Honestly, my advice is to offer him what I just offered you.”  He looks at Credence’s mouth through heavily-lidded eyes.  “You have such lovely, plush lips, I know he’ll say yes—invert or not.”

Credence stares down at the glass in his hand.  He’s been staying with Queenie for the last two days, but Percival is supposed to be returning today at midnight.  The last time he floo called, in the morning, he had asked if Credence would prefer to stay with Queenie one more night, then return to their home in the morning.  Or if he wanted Percival to come get him the moment he’s in New York.

Credence had chosen the latter option.  He already misses Percival so much, he wants to see him as soon as he possibly can.

He watches the bubbles float to the surface of his drink, popping.  He wonder what would happen if he took Leland’s advice.  If Percival brought him back home, and he dropped to his knees right then and there and rubbed his face across the front of his fine pants.  Would Percival push him away, and demand to know what has gotten into him, or would he fist his hands in Credence’s long hair and tug him closer?

If he did, Credence would undo his pants and underwear.  He would worship Percival.  He would bow at his altar, open his mouth, and take all that he has to offer.  Percival would hold him close and tell him how much he loves him, how strongly he desires him.

His love would make Credence weep.  God, how he would weep.

Credence swallows the rest of his cola, his throat bobbing.  Liquid courage.  He says to Leland, already rising from his chair,  “Would you like something to drink?”

***

It must be past midnight because when Queenie pushes open the door, Credence’s arm slung over her shoulder, Tina sits at the dining room table, fork halfway to her mouth.  It clatters to her plate, loud in the otherwise silent apartment, as she rushes over to them.

“What happened?”  She asks, her eyebrows dipped in worry.  “Is he hurt?”

“He isn’t”  Queenie says, depositing him in an armchair.  “He just had far too many glasses of Cuba Libre.”

Somewhere else in the apartment, the toilet flushes and the sink runs.

“Queenie...”  Tina chides.

“I swear I was looking after him, but I went for a couple of dances, then came back to find him five glasses in.  Though, you should have seen his friend.  He had at least seven.”

“Bathroom,”  Credence mutters, rising to his feet, swaying slightly.  His head feels so very heavy.

“Mercy Lewis,”  Tina says, then,  “Director!”  She calls out.

“Tina, have they returned?”

Percival walks into the living room, and Jesus Christ.  Credence wants to lick him.

“Credence?”  Percival asks, snapping his fingers in front of his face.  If he leans closer, he might be able to capture one of those lovely fingers in his mouth.  “Miss Goldstein…”  He says disapprovingly.  Credence frowns and pushes away from him, indignantly making his way to the bathroom, since no one seems keen on taking him.

Closing the door behind him, he’s unbuttoning his pants when he hears a faint knock on the door.

“Are you alright, Credence?”  Percival asks.

“I’m fine, Percival, just relieving myself.”  He doesn’t even pretend he can do this standing without creating a mess, so he pulls his pants and underwear all the way down.

Percival clears his throat.  “Alright then, carry on.”

Once his hands are washed and dried, he leaves the bathroom to find Percival leaning on the wall beside the door.  His eyes are closed, head thrown back, baring his throat.  Credence studies the line of his neck through blurry eyes, tracing it until he reaches Percival’s face, finding his gaze turned to him, an unreadable look in their depths.

“Did you have fun?”

“Yes,”  he says.

“Are you ready to go home?”

“I am.”

Percival reaches out and threads their fingers together, pulling him back to the living room.

They emerge from the floo to their home, Percival looking as perfect as ever, Credence with the usual ash in his hair, his stomach in knots.  Thankfully, it settles after a few seconds.  He would hate to throw up in Percival’s vicinity, he doesn’t think he’d be able to survive that kind of embarrassment.

“Would you like me to make you some tea?”  Percival asks.

Credence shakes his head.  “Just water please.”

Percival nods.  A glass comes flying out of the kitchen and he catches it.  Pointing his wand into it, he whispers an incantation.  Water flows from the end, and he hands the glass over to Credence.  He gulps it down thirstily.

When he puts the empty glass down, he looks up to find Percival looking at him strangely.  Credence remembers his hair is longer now.  He touches it self-consciously.  “Queenie combed a tonic through it,”  he explains.

“I figured,”  Percival says, taking a strand between his forefinger and thumb.  “I was more fixated on this.”  He drops the hair and runs the same thumb along Credence’s cheek, under his eye.  “What did you put over your eyes?  It’s so dark.”

“Kohl,”  Credence says.

Percival bites his bottom lip, thumb still petting his skin.

“Don’t you like it?”  Credence asks, pouting.

Percival inhales sharply.  “I do like it.”

“Do you think I’m beautiful?”  Credence asks, quite a bit drunk.

Percival closes his eyes for a second, before opening them again, a furrow developing between his brows.  “Credence, what is this about?”

Credence slides closer to him.  Stumbling on the edge of the rug, Percival reaches out and grabs him by the forearms, preventing him from falling on his face.  He pulls Credence closer, until he’s pressed against his chest, and he can feel the fast thumping of Percival’s heart.

“Your heart is racing,”  Credence observes.

Percival moves to let go, to put some distance between them, but Credence doesn’t let him.  He wraps his arms around his back until the full line of their bodies are pressed together.

“Dance with me,”  Credence says.  He doesn’t ask.

“You don’t know how to dance,”  Percival breathes.

Credence nuzzles his cheek along Percival’s ear.  “Then teach me,”  he whispers.  He takes one of Percival’s hands lying limp at his side, placing it around his waist.  He holds the other in his hand.

“There’s no music,”  Percival protests.

Credence closes his eyes and prays for the song of angels.

The radio clicks on, buzzing to life in the living room.  The music is staticy, but it’s slow and beautiful.  Credence rests his head on Percival’s shoulder, letting him guide the dance.  They sway together, moving only a step to the side and then a step back.  It isn’t really dancing.  It’s an embrace that Credence never wants to end.

Graves hums along to the music and it vibrates like sweet honey in his ear.

He wants to mouth at Percival’s neck.  He wants to kiss his way up that long line of flesh until he meets Percival’s jaw.  He wants to declare his love against the skin he usually shaves, but that now grows a faint shadow of hair without Credence to remove it.  Percival still tends to cut his face when he shaves on his own, though he isn’t as bad as he once was.

He wants so much, but more than anything he doesn’t want to interrupt the moment they share.

“Let me sleep with you tonight,”  he begs.

***

Credence lies asleep in the cradle of Percival's arms.  Percival’s face, pressed against his chest.  His own, buried in silver and black hair.

He dreams.

_A woman with long, black hair holds him to her chest in a dirty, small room, singing to him a song in a language he no longer remembers._

_He grips his hand around her polished silver necklace, fingering the hammered circles hanging from the links.  She balances him on her hip, crooning to him, twirling him around their small room until stars shine in his eyes._

_She touches her bangles and sparks of red and purple float from her fingers, landing on his skin, tickling him and making him giggle in delight.  She kisses him on a cheek still chubby with baby fat, and calls him her one true love in a beloved voice, thick with both joy and sadness._

_He touches her face and calls her, “Mama.”_

He wakes to the morning light streaming in through Percival’s bedroom window.  The space beside him is empty and cold to the touch.

Credence rises.  Opening Percival’s closet, he borrows a robe, pulling it over his clothes from yesterday.  It smells of Percival’s cologne, and he presses his nose to it as he walks down the stairs.

“We couldn’t find him, Theseus.”  he hears Percival say, and Credence stops in his tracks at the bottom of the stairwell.  “He’s gone.”

Credence peeks around the doorway to the living room, seeing Percival leaning against the fireplace mantel.  Floo fire burning bright in the shape of a handsome man’s face, he looks up at Percival grimly.  Credence ducks back into the hallway before either of the men spot him.

“I suspected as such,”  Theseus says in a thick British accent—like Newt.  Credence wonders if this Theseus is the same Theseus as Newt’s brother.

He leans against the wall.  So Grindelwald is gone, escaped into the wind.  Does he know that Credence is still alive?  Is he still after his power?  Credence doesn’t know, he suspects no one knows, but Grindelwald.

“Do you remember the first time we found his followers in France?”  Percival says, drawing him out of his despondent thoughts.

“How could I forget?  They massacred the entire village, I was unable to get proper sleep for weeks.”

“I kissed you after that first battle,”  Percival says, and Credence slaps his hands across his mouth so he doesn’t gasp.

“I remember,”  Theseus says after a moment of silence,”  I told you it was only adrenaline, said if you still felt the same in a few days, after everything had calmed down, we could revisit the kiss.”

“As I recall, things didn’t calm down for months after,”  Percival says,  “And you kissed me again a few hours later.”

“What can I say?  You were so handsome in your thirties, Percival.”

Percival huffs.  “Am I not now?”

“You don’t want me calling you handsome anymore, and we both know why.”  A long silence stretches, until Credence wonders if the conversation ended on that.

“He has strong conduit magic, Theseus, I’ve never seen anything like it before,”  Percival says.  Credence assumes they’re talking about him, though how that conversation segued to him, he’ll never know.

“Are you going to introduce him to Basile?”

“I am.”

Credence slips away, climbing back up the stairs.  His mind runs a million miles a minute as he showers and dresses for the day.

Percival is an invert.

Percival is an invert, and once, he kissed a man named Theseus.

Percival is an invert, and soon Credence will meet a man named Basile who will teach him the kind of magic he yearns to learn.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poster that Credence sees in the bookstore is [here.](https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/e/e7/Thesonofthesheik.jpg)
> 
> Also, Durex condoms were introduced in 1915, and in the 20s was sold in really cool tin packaging, so that's what Leland hands Vera. Brownie points for whomever can guess what STI Leland was talking about.
> 
> The [post](http://iamonlydancing.tumblr.com/post/162889632067/umm-i-headcanon-that-after-the-sheik-please) where I decide that Credence looks way too much like Rudolph Valentino, plus an [addendum](https://jeffgoldblumsmulletinthe90s.tumblr.com/post/162890112529/iamonlydancing-umm-i-headcanon-that-after-the) by the amazing [@jeffgoldblumsmulletinthe90s](https://jeffgoldblumsmulletinthe90s.tumblr.com) whose fics and headcanons make me shriek in happiness.
> 
> The next chapter will be up either on the 24th or 23rd.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is quickly becoming an ode to how much I really love the MET.
> 
> Warnings for this chapter includes a description of blood in the first part.

Credence tilts Percival’s chin back with the tip of his finger as he works the razor in short, precise movements, shaving the hair from his throat.  He works in silence, the only sound: the rasping of the blade cutting into hair.

Percival’s gaze feels heavier than it has ever felt before.  It’s like he heard Credence listening in on his floo call, even though he was so very quiet.

After he rinses off the razor, the water swirling down the sink, all that’s left is the hair above Percival’s lip.  He’s always left that for last for a multitude of reasons.  It’s the most difficult place to shave, and he has to pull the skin very taut, which means he has to touch Percival’s lips.

The first time he had done it, Percival’s lips had been cracked and rough.  He hadn’t been taking very good care of himself back then.  Now, as he does it, as Credence places his thumb on Percival’s top lip, the skin there is warm and softer than butter.

He stretches the skin.  The sound of the razor cutting through the hairs is deafening, or perhaps it is the ringing in his ears as he finishes and glances up to Percival, his dark eyes focused so intently on Credence’s mouth where his teeth bite his bottom lip in concentration.

Percival’s mouth opens ever so slightly, but it is enough.

Credence’s thumb slips—because of spit, or maybe shaving foam.  Whatever it is, the tip of his thumb slides into Percival’s mouth, resting on his bottom teeth.

Credence freezes, and he finds he cannot do a thing.  He should pull away—he needs to pull away—but he cannot move a single inch.  Percival’s eyes drift up to his, and they seem even darker than before; his irises a thin ring around the deep black of his pupils.  Credence sees his own surprised face reflected back like a mirror.

A touch of warm muscle moves against his thumb, startling a soft, confused noise from his throat.  Percival’s tongue.

Credence steps back so fast, he walks right into the edge of the sink, it catches against his hipbone, a bruising pain.  He drops the safety razor instinctively, whimpering when the heavy weight of it slices right through his beige trousers, into his leg.

“Shit,”  Percival swears, reaching for his forearms when he sees Credence listing off to the side as the blood flows, staining his trousers a dark wine.  He pulls Credence over, and sets him on the edge of the tub.  It doesn’t hurt, yet, but it’s an awful lot of blood, and brings to mind memories he would much rather forget.

Percival’s hands are at his fly, undoing the buttons, his fingers trembling.  Confused, Credence pushes him away, not understand what he is trying to do.  Percival swears, and gives up.  He begins pushing his pant leg up instead.  Credence hisses in pain, when the fabric tugs at his wound.  The jagged cuts from the glass are mere scabs now, compared to the surgical slice of the razor.

Percival spins him around so his bare feet touch the cold porcelain of the tub floor.  He whispers a spell, and water flows from the tip of his wand over the cut, flowing pink down the drain.  A towel whips through the air, straight into Percival’s hand, and he presses it down on the wound.

“Credence,”  Percival says, “Can you heal yourself for me?”

“I cannot,”  Credence whimpers.

“Please, darling, can you try?”  Percival begs, trailing his finger along the shape of Credence’s brow.

He closes his eyes and whispers a prayer, but it’s half hearted and weak.  He cannot put his feelings into it.  How could be possibly ask to be healed?  He’s undeserving, unworthy of his magic.  He brought this injury upon himself, it’s only what he deserves.

“I cannot,”  he repeats.

Percival nods, and Credence can’t help but feel like he’s disappointed him.  The vanity opens.  A bottle of disinfectant, and a roll of pure white bandages float over to them.

When his wound is cleaned and dressed, Percival bends over and chastely kisses his cheek.  “I love you,”  he whispers softly against his skin.

Credence’s breath catches in his throat.  “I love you too,”  he replies instantly.

***

Percival and Credence walk into the office to a man wearing spectacles with his feet up on Percival’s desk.  Percival doesn’t even seem bothered, he only swats the man’s legs as he walks past to take his seat.

“Credence,”  Percival says, gesturing towards the stranger,  “Meet Basile Tremblay.”

“B. Tremblay,”  Credence states, dumbfounded.  “You wrote the book on Anishnaabe magical history.”

Mr. Tremblay smiles.  “Oh, Graves gave you that to read?”

“It’s a good book,”  Percival defends,  “Now get your feet off my desk.”

Mr. Tremblay’s lip quirks mischievously, and his feet slip to the floor.  He rises from the chair, hand held out invitingly, “You must be Credence,”  he says,  “It’s lovely to finally meet you, Graves refuses to shut up about you.”

“He does?”  Credence asks, looking at Percival wondrously.

“I do not,”  Percival huffs, sorting through a stack of papers on his desk, but his ears are a lovely pink, and Credence thinks he’s blushing.

“I would not mind if you did,”  Credence says, meeting Percival’s gaze head on as he looks up,  “It means you care about me.”

Percival’s mouth opens slightly, his voice open and soft as he says,  “Of course I care about you, I…”  His gaze slips to Mr. Tremblay who watches their interaction with consideration.  Percival clears his throat, looking back down.  “Credence, you’ll be spending the day with Basile.  I’ve arranged for you to work in a private room.  You’ll have everything you need there.”

Credence walks over, touching Percival’s hand lightly.  “Will I see you for lunch?”

Percival shakes his head, and Credence tries not to show how disappointed he feels.  “I’ll be out, Tina and I have a few leads to follow up on.”

“You’ll be careful though, won’t you?”  Credence asks, the tips of his fingers tracing the veins running along Percival’s skin.  He turns his hand over and captures Credence’s.  Percival presses a quick kiss to his fingertips, lingering.  It so closely echoes their position in the morning, Credence flushes.

“I will, but if you want any further reassurances, you can take it up with Basile, and he can send us a message.”

A knock sounds on the door, and Tina pokes her head through, smiling at Credence before turning to Percival, a serious look on her face.

“Are you ready, Director?”

***

“There’s not need to be nervous, Credence,”  Mr. Tremblay says, adjusting his round spectacles.  Credence didn’t know wizards used glass to correct their vision, he figured magic could help most maladies.

“I’m not nervous, Mr. Tremblay, I’m excited.”

Mr. Tremblay smiles as he holds open the door to the room, letting Credence pass through first.  “I’m glad to hear that, but please call me Basile.  There is no need for such formalities between us.  We’re going to be learning much about each other, so I think it only necessary.”

“Basile, then,”  Credence says.  Taking in the rather large room, from a series of dummies to the far wall, to a large floor space for dueling, Credence wonders if this is where aurors are trained.

“We won’t be using any of that today.”  Basile leads him over a stretch of benches for onlookers to observe the duels that usually take place.  “Today, we’ll just talk.”  Basile sits, folding one leg over the other, patting the seat beside him.  “What do you know about conduit magic, Credence?”

Credence sits, his hands in his lap, fingers playing with the seams on his black pants.  He knows a minimal amount.  Basile’s book is first and foremost a historical tome.  It implies a prerequisite knowledge of conduit magic, though Credence was able to figure out a lot by reading in between the lines.  His other textbooks had been next to useless on the matter, calling it wandless magic, and saying it was dangerous and unpredictable.

“I know that some cultures that have never had contact with European wizards practice magic without the use of wands.”

“Well, that’s both true and untrue,”  Basile says patiently,  “To say that the sole wielders of wands are Europeans would be incorrect.  Many cultures that have developed adjacent to each other might use magic differently.  One might practice conduit magic, and the other wanded.  Europe is not a monolith, Credence, there are wizards whose ancestors arrived hundreds or even thousands of years ago who don’t use wands.”

Credence leans closer, interested.  “What do you mean?”

“Conduit magic isn’t a sign of naivety, as as many conservative wizards would have you believe,”  Basile explains,  “To assume so, would be to assume the use of a wand is an indication of an advanced culture, instead of what it really is: circumstance, tradition, the lack of access to magical beasts, or even proximity to wood.  A wizard that thrives in the tundra isn’t going to make their magic reliant on a material they might stumble upon.  They’re going to use materials that are easily accessible, or they might choose to do without altogether.”

“As you do,”  Credence says.

“Exactly.”  Basile nods firmly.  “Community is important to my clan.  So, it is no wonder that our magic has come to rely on our togetherness.  Magic is a part of all of us, even those who do not visibly demonstrate it.”

“like no-majs?”  Credence asks.

“You might call them that.”  Basile sighs.  “Rappaport's Law, and the treaties signed alongside it define them as such.  It is those laws have been slowly whittling away at my clan’s magic.”

“Because you’re forbidden from forming relationships with no-majs,”  Credence says quietly.  “Even though your magic depends on them.”  

“Our power is weakening, and more and more children are born without magic in their veins.”

Credence drums his fingers on his knee.  Basile’s book—while long and well researched before the arrival of Europeans to the Americas—graphically describes their effects on his people.

When Europeans wizards met with the first peoples of the Great Lakes, their use of conduit magic was described as savage.  A school was founded far away in Massachusetts—the same school Percival attended—to teach magic the ‘right’ way.

Then, two hundred years later, after the signing of Rappaport's Law and the treaties that forced the mass obliviation of no-majs, Basile’s ancestors were taken away from their families to Ilvermorny, to learn a magic they were unable to comprehend.  Basile’s clan had magic at their fingertips, but they were told to rely on a piece of wood and murmured latin phrases instead.

All of Credence’s other textbooks declared the founding of Ilvermorny a joyous occasion, a symbol of the becoming of a country.  They forget that this land existed long before Europeans stepped upon it and declared it theirs.

“My whole clan knew magic.  Everyone, even no-majs.  But after Twelvetrees’ slip, MACUSA demanded we keep it a secret.  They obliviated those who weren’t magic, but who helped others channel theirs.  They stole them away, and said we couldn’t live amongst them, and eventually the memory of us was lost.  We are fighting to fix this, for the repeal of Rappaport’s Law.”  Basile touches Credence’s hand, and the scars bisecting his palms.  Credence jerks away, ashamed, but Basile doesn’t let him move.  “As your magic was suppressed and beaten from you, the treaties are suppressing our communal magic.  Though, if you learn to harness your form of conduit magic, perhaps you too can heal.”

Credence frowns down at his hands.  “How, Basile?”  His prayer sparks magic in him, but how can something from God control something his Ma said was born of the devil?

“The witches and wizards who were forced to learn wanded magic still struggle to relearn the magic they were born to.  Many fail, and they slowly deteriorate.”  Basile explains.  “Wanded magic never works for us.  It might in the beginning, but after sometime it always fails.”

Credence nods.  “I destroyed my wand, but it was an accident.”

“Yes, Graves told me.”  Basile’s lips quirk in a barely hidden smile.  “What a remarkable display it must have been.”

“I hurt him,”  Credence says sadly.

“Then you healed him with your magic, without spells.  That’s more than many have been able to do, often the magic is lost to them.”

Credence shakes his head.  “I only had the wand for a few weeks, not for years worth of schooling.”

“But your magic was powerful enough to break it.  Usually the wand just doesn’t work right, spells come out wrong or weak, and the wizard suffers for it.  The wizarding world is prejudiced towards conduit magic because society teaches that wandless magic is dangerous.  On the other hand, no one wants to come near a wizard barely in control of their wand.”

“What about those that regain control of their magic, how do they do it?”

“Through years of practice with the community supporting and helping them,”  Basile says gently.  “It can be sped along through the adoption of an animagus form, and the discipline that affords.”

Credence swallows, his fingers twitching.  He’s heard about animagi, and how difficult it is to become one.  Credence doesn’t know if that is the right path for him.  “Isn’t a wand necessary for the transformation?”

Basile waggles a finger, a kind smile on his lips.  “Only for magic with a wand.  But for conduit magic users, it’s all about looking within, and bringing the skin one wears inside, out.  Look at Graves’ auror, Devi.  While she manifested her animagus through the latin mandrake method, she still needs to call upon her inner skin each time she transforms.”

“How can I discover my inner skin?”  Credence asks, his brows dipping in confusion.  He doesn’t quite understand.

Basile shrugs.  “To be honest, I have no idea.  Though, I know someone who does.”

***

“How was your time with Basile?”  Percival asks as they emerge from the Woolworth building’s revolving doors, the sun just beginning its descent on the horizon.

“We had an interesting conversation, he’s taking me to meet someone named Ruby Mae tomorrow.”

Percival smiles slyly, glancing at Credence out of the corner of his eye.  “Oh is he?  Make sure you tease him about his infatuation.”

Credence purses his lips in disapproval, but Percival just tugs him closer.  “He won’t take it to heart, sweet Credence.  Nor will he ever do anything about said infatuation.  He’s much too in love with his work to commit to a relationship.”

“He’s a dedicated man, I can admire that.”

“Consider me properly chastised.”  Wrapping an arm around Credence’s waist, Percival walks with him.  The no-majs passing by don’t even spare them a glance.  Percival must have cast a disillusionment charm.  “Say,”  Percival starts, and Credence looks at him curiously,  “How would you like to go to the MET again?”

Credence frowns.  “It’ll be closed at this hour.”

Percival bites his bottom lip, fingers fiddling to distraction a button on his sweater.  “As if that’s stopped us before.”

***

They walk through the silent galleries, guided by Percival’s bright lumos, the clacking of their shoes loud on the parquet floor.

Credence walks a step or two behind Percival, watching him instead of the beautiful art around them.  His silver and black hair, the elegant slope of his neck, his wide shoulders, Credence cannot take his eyes off him.

Percival turns around, and Credence blushes, caught.  Percival just smiles.

“You should see this,”  he says, holding out a palm.  Credence slips his hand into Percival’s, and he tugs him along.  They stop in front of a grand painting of running horses, frozen in action.  The men ride the beasts with varying degrees of control, so used to working with the animals, they seem to shrug off their antics.  All but one.  Clothed in a white shirt to match the horseflesh around him, he wears an expression of plain fear in the face of the kicking horse at his side.

How close the artist must have been to bear witness to such a scene.

“Who painted it?”

“Rosa Bonheur,”  Percival says with a smile.

“A woman?”  Credence asks, surprised, stepping back to take in just how massive the painting is.  “I didn’t know women painted such large works.”

“Bonheur was quite a popular artist: a painter of animals,”  Percival explains,  “Many women became such, as they were not allowed access to human models.  Anatomical classes were forbidden to them.”

“Why?”

“Oh darling,”  Percival smiles fondly, stepping close enough to whisper in Credence’s ear,  “Because the models would be nude.  Unmarried women looking upon men—from the hair upon their chest, all the way to the hair down below—was strongly frowned upon.”

“Ah,”  Credence says, his cheeks heating, as Percival pulls away, a playful twinkle in his eye.

“Not that she cared for the nudity of men, she loved animals from a young age.”

“She and Newt would have gotten along swell.”

Percival throws his head back and laughs.  “My mother adored her.  Called her a brash woman who wouldn’t take shit from no one.  Especially not men.  She lived with a woman for most of her life and never married.”

Credence raises his eyebrows, surprised.  “Was Bonheur a witch?”

“Oh no.”  Percival shakes his head.  “France’s laws restricting the relationships between no-majs and wizards are practically non existent—they were friends.  Mum struggled with the secrecy after she married my father and moved to America.  There were a few incidents, but they were easily covered up with our connections.”

“Your mother was French?”  Credence asks, wondrously.  Percival has hardly ever spoken about his mother before, and he loves that he’s opening up now.  Credence barely remembers his mother, but with the dreams he’s been having, he feels like she’s returning to him.

“She was a great supporter of the arts.  I don’t know what she saw in my father, the boring government official he was, but she married him, left France and her life behind.  Though she later developed a taste for botany.”  Percival chuckles.  “My mother was a strange woman, with a questionable taste in men.”

Credence snorts.  “You’re a government official, and you still like the arts.  I don’t think the two are mutually exclusive.”  He squeezes Percival’s hand.

Percival smiles, wide and warm.  Ducking his head in a way that makes Credence want to kiss him so much, he looks back to the painting.  “Mum told me that to paint this, Bonheur had to visit the horse market with a sketchbook twice a week for a year and a half.  To polite society, the horse market isn’t the place for a woman.  It is a land of men, populated by Romani traders and travelers.  They are often stereotyped in a negative manner in art, but Bonheur does not fall into that trap.”

Credence looks at the man in a white shirt, and wonders if Bonheur believed the stereotypes at first.  Eventually, she would have gotten to know her subjects, animal and human.  She paints them so truthfully, she must have known that humans are not that different from each other.  They all feel emotions—happiness, fear—it’s just a part of being.

“If she wore her usual clothes she might have brought attention on herself,”  Percival finishes.

“What did she do?”  Credence asks.

“Why, she dressed as a man,”  Percival says simply,  “But you must understand, during those times, a woman could not just put on a pair of trousers.”

“Like Tina.”

“Like Tina,”  Percival repeats,  “She had to get a permit to do so.”

Credence frowns.  “That seems unfair.”

“It was.  The world is unfair to women, Credence.  My mother always told me that I have the ability to change that, especially as a man in a position of authority.”

“Your aurors,”  he states.  Only a few women hold positions of power in MACUSA, and most of them are in Percival’s department.

“I chose my aurors because they’re competent.  Their sex had nothing to do with it.  All I did was refuse to disregard them because they are women.  Many men would pass over competent women, because they are afraid they would make them look weak.  Personally, I think that’s a load of bullshit.”  He huffs, then his eyes widen.  “Please excuse my language.”  He looks at Credence sheepishly.

“I agree Percival,”  Credence says, smiling and quickly deciding he doesn’t do that nearly enough, going by the wondrous expression it brings to Percival’s face,  “That is a load of bullshit.”

As they walk home, their hands still clasped together, Credence asks,  “What kind of animagus is auror Devi?”

Percival swings their hands playfully, and Credence _loves_ this side of him.  “She’s a purple heron.  They’re endemic to her parent’s homeland of Madras.”

“She’s from India?”

Percival shakes his head.  “She was born in Britain.  Her parents immigrated there, then in her youth, they immigrated to America.  During her exams, she told me that she had never seen one before she transformed.  Their range does not reach the British Isles or America.”  Percival tilts his head.  “Why do you ask?”

“Basile thinks I should find my animagus form to channel my magic.”

Percival hums, uncommitted.  “Perhaps.”  He says nothing more on the subject.

***

Credence has never ventured this north before.  Familiarity and fear of Mary Lou had kept him in Manhattan.  She always said Harlem was a town of sin.  Whether it was her racialism speaking or fear of the vibrant nightlife, Credence doesn’t know, but he bets it was both.

The music buzzes over the racing engines of automobiles, as Basile leads him along, their long legs walking them far and fast.  Lights flash a bright orange, illuminating signs that advertise shows and premium talent.

Credence quickly decides that Manhattan is not as vibrant as Harlem.

While there are still plenty of white folks rushing about, there are just as many coloured folks, perhaps even more.  Mary Lou would have had a conniption if she knew he had come here, and it makes Credence smile.  He wishes Percival could have joined them, but he said he was too tired, and Credence could not object.  He had looked so stressed.    The manhunt for Grindelwald is chewing up everyone in MACUSA.

Basile leads him through an entrance to a club, the line long, but he bypasses them.  None of the people waiting raise a fuss, and don’t even seem to see them.  Basile hands three dollar bills to the doorman who tucks them into a pocket, waving them through.

The floor is carpeted beneath Credence’s feet, and he can barely see in front of him, it’s so dark.  Tables surround a stage occupied by a singing woman, much like the restaurant Percival took him to.  While that establishment was run but wizards, there are no floating menus to be had here.  This is a no-maj club.

They claim a table at the very back, even further in the shadows.

Basile leans close, whispering,  “Don’t worry, she’ll be here soon.  She’s performing next.”

“Performing?  Who is—”  Credence asks but is interrupted when a woman in a lemon yellow dress quietly slides into the chair beside Basile.

“You _chat_ , Basile, I thought I saw you come in, and with a friend too?  How marvelous,” the woman says with a sly smile and a thick accent, taking a long drag from a cigarette holder.  She shifts her chair closer to Basile, until he puts his hand on the back of hers, leaning closer.  “You here to watch me perform, _mon candi barré_?”  She whispers.

“ _Au contraire_ , we’re here to watch you shine, _mon amie_.”

She must be Ruby Mae, the woman they’ve come here to see.

She giggles.  Reaching for Basile’s chin she tugs him into her space.  He goes all too happily, with a brilliant smile.

Their kiss is sweet and slow, and Credence watches them fondly until he catches a flash of Ruby Mae’s tongue, and he whips his head to the stage to give them privacy.

A woman with even darker skin than Ruby Mae performs, crooning into a microphone.  The audience seems captivated by her.  Her dress sparkles under the bright stage lights, and Credence finds himself also falling under her spell.  He watches the audiences’ expressions for a bit before he notices that every single one of them is white.  Considering the population outside the club, it seems very disproportionate.

His expression must give his confusion away because Rub Mae says, “Monsieur Connie keeps the audience segregated, boo.”

Credence looks over, finding her head now cradled on Basile’s shoulder.  Basile looks quite a bit hot under the collar, a flush all over his cheeks, glasses having slid down his nose.  Credence now understands why Percival enjoys teasing him about his affection for Ruby Mae.  He looks quite flustered under her attention.

“He’s not a segregationist at heart, but his patrons are.  It’s good business.”  She gestures to the people enjoying the show.  “We host a later show, specifically for black folks.”

“Isn’t that a bit—”

“Hypocritical?”  Ruby Mae takes a long drag from her cigarette.  “But of course.  You white folks have not been known through history for making tonnes of sense, boo.”

Credence smiles shyly, and she grins right back.

“Now.”  She taps her cigarette, ash falling onto the floor.  Tipping her head so she looks up at Basile, she asks,  “You gonna tell me why you’re really here, or will I have to kiss it outta you?”

“Try the po-boys,”  Basile says, gesturing to the menu, ignoring Ruby Mae with a self satisfied grin.  Like he wouldn’t mind if she went through with her threat.  Credence thinks their flirting is ridiculous.  Adorable, but ridiculous.

Credence rolls his eyes and says to Ruby Mae,  “I need to figure out how to control my magic.  Could you tell me how you achieved your animagus transformation?”

She shrugs.  “Did it the way my paw paw taught me, and his before him.  Went down into the Bayou and got lost for a few days.  Emerged scared shitless, but wearing my animal half.”

Credence blinks.  “That’s it?”

Ruby Mae taps a finger on her bottom lip.  “I’m pretty sure I saw my maw maw in the mist, but that could’ve just been the Rougarous.”

Basile goes even paler than Credence.  He whispers hurriedly to Ruby Mae,  “I’m not getting Graves' lover eaten by a Rougarou.”

Credence drops his menu to the floor.  He apologizes, his face heating like it’s on fire as he goes to pick it up.

“Graves' lover, eh?”  Ruby Mae smirks in delight.

“Yes,”  Basile says solemnly,  “So you understand why I’d rather he doesn’t get eaten?”

“I’m not his lover,”  Credence says under his breath, but either they don’t hear him, or they simply don’t care, because they continue their bickering.

“A little nip never hurt nobody.”

“ _Ruby Mae_ ,”  Basile draws out her name, long and disapproving.

She shrugs, not at all repentant.  “You could always try something different.  Not everyone’s meant to have an animagus.”

“What’s yours?”  Credence asks.

She pouts.  “I’m a canary, ain’t that unfitting?”

The room breaks out in applause.  The singer must have finished her set.  The emcee announces Ruby Mae and she gets up, sweeping imaginary ash from her dress, probably a nervous tic, she looks impeccable.

“But aren’t you a singer?”

She scrunches her face up.  “I cannot sing for shit, boo, my feet do my singing for me.”  She turns to Basile, a serious expression on her face.  “I don’t think he needs to find his animagus.”  She raises a finger.  “Just yet.  He wants to control his magic, but I believe he already knows how.”  She sends Credence a winning grin, a perfectly plucked brow raised in expectation.

“I pray,”  he says weakly.

She tweaks his nose.  “Then you should stick with it, boo, especially if it’s working just fine for you.”

She flounces off as the band starts going.  Hopping across the floor, her heels click as they make contact, keeping the rhythm.

Credence looks nervously to Basile, but he just wears a thoughtful expression.  “Is that okay?”  He asks, watching Ruby Mae don a giant smile, tapping away to the music, stomping, kicking, and throwing her arms.  She’s dancing her heart out, and having a ball while at it.

“There’s certainly no precedent, but I believe we can work with it.  Latin is the basis of a great proportion of Western spell language, and Christian prayers are also Latin, right?”

“Prayers in Latin are Catholic, actually.”

Basile sighs, defeated.  “There’s a difference?”

Credence chuckles.  “A pretty substantial difference.”

After a long silence, during which they watch the performance, Basile says,  “Then I guess I’m going to be learning just as much from you as you are from me.”

Ruby Mae finishes a complicated series of steps, and throws her arms up in the air, chest moving up and down in exertion.

“Wouldn’t have it any other way, Basile,”  Credence says as he rises to give her a standing ovation.

***

He’s dressing for the night when he notices the sprout.

At first, he can’t believe his eyes.  It’s only been two weeks since Percival gave him the bulb.  He keeps it in his room so he can monitor it easily, without having to trek up three flights of stairs.  He had planted it in a terracotta pot, placing it on the floor away from direct sunlight, but didn’t expect to see any green for months.

Credence crouches in front of the pot where a small, bright green sprout peeks from the sandy, moist soil.  He stares at it, half expecting it to grow another inch while he watches.  Even though it doesn’t, he quickly decides that the tulip must be magic.

“Credence.”  Percival knocks on his door frame, stepping into the room, wearing only his sleepwear.  He pads over on bare feet to where Credence is curled on the floor, concern in his eyes.  His gaze shifts to the tulip, and an unreadable expression slides over his face.  “You did it,”  he says quietly.

Credence picks up the pot, climbing to his feet.  He holds it out, showing it to Percival, saying,  “It has to be magic, it came up so fast.”

Percival shakes his head.  “Credence, the tulip isn’t magic.  You are.”  Credence clutches the pot to his chest as Percival smiles at him.  His skin prickles hot under his unwavering gaze.  He wishes Percival would smile at him forever.

He turns to place the pot on the windowsill—it’ll enjoy the sunlight from now on.

A hand wraps around his other wrist, careful and firm.  His fingers slip from the terracotta, saying a quick prayer that only the Lord can hear so the tulip grows tall and strong.  He faces Percival.  Closing his eyes, breath coming out in a puff when Percival steps closer and pulls Credence into an embrace.

Wrapping his arms around Percival’s waist, he tucks his head into his neck.  The hand Percival strokes down his spine burns like holy fire.  He clears his throat, and Credence feels his unsurety against his cheek.

“Do you think…”  Percival begins, then stops.  Credence pulls back to look at him fully.  He finds Percival with a beautiful flush over his cheeks, furiously staring somewhere over Credence’s shoulder, like he’s finding it difficult to meet his eye.

Credence lifts his hand to Percival’s jaw, turning his head gently.  His throat clicks, and then Percival is looking at him.  His eyes are endlessly dark, and Credence’s heart swells.  He truly loves him so.  “What is it?”  He asks.

“Do you think I could spend the night with you?”  Percival asks quietly.

Credence nods.  “Of course.”

Percival’s lips quirk in response.  He once again takes Credence’s wrist, this time leading him to the bed.  Credence pulls back the covers, while Percival summons a pillow from his room.  When they’re settled comfortably—the both of them lying on their backs, staring at the canopy above—Credence is the first to move.  He touches Percival’s clenched hand, turning it over so he can link their fingers together.

Credence stares out the high window, counting the stars when Percival says out of the blue,  “Her name was Yseult.”

“Your mother.”  Credence concludes.

“She named Roland and I after knights.  His was from a French tale.  Mine, from an Arthurian legend, like her namesake,”  Percival chuckles,  “Yseult.  The wife of Mark of Cornwall, and the lover of Tristan.  She used to joke that if she ever met a man named Tristan, she would leave my father for him.”

“Was your father named Mark?”  Credence asks.

“No, but that would have been an amusing coincidence.”  His thumb strokes along Credence’s knuckles.  “Our grandmother used to read her stories of knights and fair maidens in her youth.  She read the same stories to us.  I grew up with tales of strong heroes, courtly love, and braves knights swirling about in my head.  Unsurprisingly, _La Chanson de Roland_ was Roland’s favourite.  He was quite fond of his namesake’s fate, for some unfathomable reason.”

The French flows off Percival’s tongue like butter, and it makes Credence’s cheeks flush.

“You speak French, I didn’t know that.”  he states, quite struck.  The language was lovely coming from Basile and Ruby Mae, but from Percival, it truly is something else.

“ _Oui, mon cœur_ ,”  Percival whispers, just about stopping Credence’s heart in his chest,  “ _Tu es le seule à me comprendre.  Je t'aime tellement que parfois j'ai du mal à y croire_.”

“Oh,”  Credence says.  He doesn’t understand a single word, but somehow knows what Percival is telling him.  He turns on his side.  Percival’s face is barely discernable in the moonlight, only the angles of his cheeks and brow catch the cold light.  Credence brings their hands up to his mouth and kisses the back of Percival’s.  “I love you too,”  he says for the second time in his life, meaning every word.

Percival inhales sharply, and he presses his forehead to their joining.  Credence can feel his eyes on him, and he never wants them to wander.  He slowly lifts his other hand to Percival’s face, running a finger along his jaw, feeling the faint hint of his stubble growth for the day.

“You are the most wonderful man I have ever met,”  Credence says very seriously.  Leaning forward, his nose nudges against Percival’s as he finds his lips.  His mouth is so very soft, and Credence aches as their lips move, oh so slowly, oh so wondrously.  It’s too dark for him to see, but he imagines Percival’s eyes must be open as his are.  He feels so much during this perfect moment, and as Credence pulls back, their lips clinging for a single second, before breaking, he rests his forehead against Percival’s.  “You live in my bones, Percival Graves,”  he says.

Percival sighs, but says nothing more, he drapes an arm over Credence’s waist, presses another kiss to the edge of his mouth, and tucks his face into the curve of his neck.

Credence pets his hair.  They fall asleep, wrapped up in each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ruby Mae calls Basile her candi barré, which is Louisiana French for candy cane.
> 
> What Percival says to Credence in French: “Yes, my heart, you are the only one who understands me. I love you so much that sometimes I can hardly believe it.”  
> I’m sorry if my flowery French is sub par, but I only speak it for utilitarian purposes, so *shrugs* (Thanks to Shigure_Natsu for the suggested changes!)
> 
> The Rosa Bonheur painting is [here.](https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/f/f6/Rosa_bonheur_horse_fair_1835_55.jpg) And the Harlem Renaissance is in my soul.
> 
> My bro above all other bros suggested the link between Ilvermorny’s potential colonial history and the shitty fucking garbage that was the Canadian residential school system, so now Basile’s face is his face—since they’re both Metis, and crazy about gorgeous Bayou babes. I myself am not indigenous, and do not pretend to speak for indigenous history and tragedy. Just, J.K. got me raging when she basically glossed over colonialism, the suppression of culture, and the mass genocide of indigenous peoples in the Americas, so Basile happened. If anyone reading this is indigenous, and feels like my brown ass is way too presumptuous, please let me know and feel free to call me out. I really wanna know if I'm being unintentionally disrespectful, so I can, y'know, stop being unintentionally disrespectful.
> 
> Next chapter will be up on the 5th or 6th.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for this super late chapter, but to my defence, life got in the way. I thought I would have time to write a whole new fic, and still update this chapter, but I totally forgot about some work stuff, and things just started snowballing from there.
> 
> There won't be anymore art, just so I don't have to worry about finding time to do that too. Hopefully this chapter makes up for it!

Graves fries eggs by the stove as Credence walks into the kitchen, rubbing his eyes.  He lets out an incredible yawn, sitting down at the breakfast table.  Credence sighs, hanging his head, and Graves watches in astonishment as a cabinet opens, a mug flying out.  Tea makes itself in between the trip from the cabinet to Credence’s hand, and he startles a bit as the cup worms it’s way into his grip, nearly dropping it.

“I didn’t think Basile was that good of a teacher,”  Graves observes, walking to the table, carrying two plates of scrambled eggs and toast.

Credence blinks at the steaming cup of tea.  “It happens on its own, sometimes, unintentionally,”  Credence says, looking up at him for a brief second before glancing down at his food, a flush rising on his cheeks.  Graves is grateful Dolly has chosen to be elsewhere this lovely morning, he would hate to have an audience for the talk they’re about to have.

“About last night,”  Graves begins, sawing rather intently at his toast,  “You must know that I don’t expect anything from you, Credence.  I’m much older than you, and if you want some time to think our relationship over, I will not hesitate to give you—”

“There’s nothing to think about,”  Credence says firmly, looking up, determination in his bearing,  “I love you, and I want you.  Both in my life,”  his face goes pink, and it seems like he wants to look away again, but he steels his resolve, and meets Graves’ eyes steadily,  “And in my bed.”

Graves reaches for his cup, taking a long drink from his creamy coffee to distract himself from reaching the wrong conclusion about what Credence meant.  They slept together in the same bed last night, and Graves enjoyed the experience, as always.  He wouldn’t mind a repeat of it.  “Of course, you mean…  we needn't rush the carnal aspects of our relationship, and I much enjoy sleeping beside you.”

“I meant what I said, Percival.”  Credence frowns.  “Unless you don’t wish to participate in sodomy with me.”  Graves coughs, his coffee going down the wrong pipe, burning his throat.  “It is a sin, I know, but I thought we were beyond that.  I don’t believe God would allow me to fall in love with you, only to—are you alright?”  Credence asks, reaching across the table where Graves still hacks away, red in the face.

When he finally gets his breath back, he takes Credence’s outstretched hand, bringing it to his lips.  “Darling, there’s always time for that, there’s no need to rush.”

Credence purses his lips, looking completely and utterly bamboozled.

“But the magazines…”  He begins, then trails off.

“Magazines?”  Graves asks, squeezing, then letting go of Credence’s hand to eat his food, before it goes cold.

Credence looks conflicted for a long moment.  He sighs and whispers a prayer under his breath.  The sound of a door opening echoes above them, just as a stack of magazines shoot down the stairs, skidding to a stop at the edge of Graves’ plate.  He glances over at Credence questioningly, but he refuses to meet his eye, looking incredibly embarrassed.

Graves picks up the first magazine, the title page proclaiming the publication _The Witch’s Violet._

“Credence?”  Graves asks, flipping through the pages, his eyes widening as he goes.  Explicit pornography is laid out in front of him.  He reaches for another magazine, skimming through it.  This one tells fictional tales of male inversion, still as explicit as the last.  Words like cock, prick, and manhood stand out to him like they’re leaping off the page.  He closes the magazine, returning it to the pile.  He’s lost for words, he has no idea what to say, but the thought of Credence reading such filth in front of him has him swallowing the lump caught in his throat.

“Are you angry?”  Credence asks, breaking the silence.

“Merlin, no!”  He exclaims, then in a much quieter tone,  “I’m not angry at you, Credence.”

A furrow develops between Credence’s brow.  “Then I don’t want you to be angry at Queenie, I encouraged her to give me these.”

“Queenie Goldstein gave you these?”  Graves says in disbelief, rubbing a hand over his face, reevaluating all that he thought he knew about her.  “Listen, Credence, I’m not angry at you or Queenie.  I couldn’t be, you two did nothing wrong.”

“But it’s such filth,”  Credence continues to argue, as if he was expecting Graves to be angry, instead of just surprised.  And surprised he is.  Words cannot express the range of emotions running through his brain right at the moment, but none of them come even close to anger.  “I understand if you prefer I didn’t know about the pleasure of the flesh before you taught me, but they were difficult to resist.”  He hangs his head, but there is nothing to be ashamed of.  “I should have showed some restraint.”

“Darling, please,”  Graves says.  Rising from his seat, he walks over to Credence, crouching at his feet.  Credence turns to face him, and Graves takes the opportunity to tangle their hands in his lap.  He leans up and kisses his cheek.  “I could never fault you for wanting to know more about sex.  I was just surprised, forgive me for worrying you.”

Credence lifts a hand, pushing Graves’ hair out of his face.  “You’re not angry?”

Graves smiles.  “I think it’s wonderous that you’re choosing to explore this part of yourself.”

Credence studies his face, blinking.  He seems to decide that Graves is telling the truth.  He nods his head, once, sharply making a decision.  “In that case, would you like me to read a passage to you tonight?”

Graves inhales deeply, and closes his eyes, praying to any deity listening that—after only a few hours into this relationship—Credence doesn’t kill him with such suggestions.

“There’s an edition about the knights of the round table, if you’re interested?”  Credence offers, fingers running deeper into his hair, disheveling it.  He’ll have to return upstairs to fix it, but Graves doesn’t mind one bit.  He supposes Credence will love to discover that Graves enjoys a lover gripping tight his hair in the throes of passion.  “The knight Perceval features.”

“How many times have you read that particular story?”  Graves asks.

Credence smiles a private smile, his eyes dark and deep, a thumb slipping down to run along Graves’ jaw.  His eyes glint mischievously, and Graves is swallowed deeper into his hold.  “Countless times.”

***

Queenie Goldstein kidnaps Credence the moment they walk into the Woolworth building.  Graves is unable to look her in the eye after what Credence told him at breakfast.  He never would have taken her for a lover of erotica, but then again, what does he know?  He hardly knows anything about anyone at MACUSA.  For all he knows, Abernathy could be an award winning kneazle breeder.

Queenie has her hand wrapped around Credence’s waist, a smirk digging into the side of his head as he instructs Credence to go to his office after finishing with whatever she wants.

Graves is regaining his occlumency skills, enough that he would be able to block out any dabbler that tried it on him.  Queenie is no mere dabbler, and besides, Credence is an open book.  What she cannot read from Graves, she must be able to read from him.  Merlin knows Graves cannot stop thinking about him at nearly every waking hour.  He imagines Credence is much the same.  Before they proceed any further into this relationship, Graves should teach him occlumency.  He cannot have Queenie learning intimate details about them that no one but they should know.

“Director,”  Queenie says with a smile.  “You might want to look at page seven of the Ghost, I think you’ll find an interesting article.  She winks, then flounces off with Credence trailing after her, looking back only once.  Once Credence has disappeared into the elevators, Graves is off, ready to track down and commander a copy of the Ghost.

Lo and behold, Graves finds none other than Hugh Jauncey striding through the revolving door, the Ghost in one hand, a buttered scone in the other.  Graves is sorely tempted to cast a jinx that has him dropping both, but he knows Jauncey is spiteful enough to submit a complaint.

Merlin knows Graves is already having a tough enough time with the paperwork rejecting his play at retirement.  It would be easier to just let it be, let him retire.  It would get him out of Graves’ hair, but he’s not about to let him have the satisfaction of retiring early with a pension.  Graves wants everyone to know that he was fired from his position because he’s a grossly incompetent racialist.

“Jauncey,”  Graves calls out, shoes clacking along the floor as he marches over.  Jauncey smiles his smug little smile as he waits for Graves’ approach, crumbs tumbling down the front of his shirt as he chews.  Graves makes a face.  He’s only met a few people as repugnant—inside and out—as Jauncey, and it says a lot that Grindelwald counts among them.

“Graves,”  Jauncey sneers,  “I enjoyed your mention in the Ghost this morning.  To have taken in a bastard child like you did, how philanthropic.  Though I imagine it has your father rolling in his grave.  Your family is quite known for their sense of honor, no?”

Graves stops in his tracks, blinking in surprise.  There’s only one person the Ghost could be talking about, and that’s Credence.  No one outside of MACUSA’s auror department was informed of the obscurial’s identity, so of course the gossip columns are having a go at guessing who he is.

He’s vaguely insulted that the Ghost is calling Credence his illegitimate son, and not his young lover.  Graves is spry for his age, it’s a possibility they should have considered.  Besides, his father did teach him honour.  If there was any possibility of him having begotten a child on a woman, he would have married her long before she even started showing.  Look at what Roland did.

He holds his hand out with a quirked brow, waiting.  Jauncey gives over the paper with a vicious smirk.  Flipping to the column, he finds a picture of Credence and him leaving the Woolworth building a few days ago.  They’re holding hands in the picture and smiling like idiots at each other.  For fuck’s sake.  This columnist thinks Credence is his son?  Reporters are supposed to be observant, it’s in the job description.

Graves folds the newspaper and tucks it under his arm.  “Thank you for this, auror Jauncey.”  He ignores the furrow that grows between Jauncey’s brow, standing up straight so he towers over the other man.  “If I thought you were lazy before, you have proved me utterly wrong.  You are the absolute manifestation of sloth, I have never met anyone as incompetent as you.”

“Excuse me—”

“You didn’t even read the report we released on Grindelwald, did you?”

“I read it,”  he argues through clenched teeth.

“You read the short autopsy we released on auror O’Malley.  If you had read the longer, more detailed, _required_ , report on Grindelwald, you would have known exactly who that man was, and how he definitely is not my son.”

Graves pushes past Jauncey, not even bothering to wish him a good day.  He is tired of pretending to be civil.  He wants that man gone from his department as soon as humanly possible.

Basile slips into stride with him as he walks to Major Investigations, a wide smile on his freshly shaven face, glasses sliding down his nose, as usual.

“You’re looking perky,”  Graves observes, brushing off his encounter with Jauncey, refusing to let it ruin his day,  “I suppose Ruby Mae opened her schedule for you.”

“She took me out for dinner and a show.”  An expression that could only be described as dopey comes over his face.  “Then brought me back to her place, and had her wicked way with me.  It was glorious,”  Basile sighs.

“How will she feel once you leave again?”  Graves asks, recalling the last time Basile had loved her, then left her.  She had flown into Graves’ office in her animagus form—his secretary running after with her wand in hand—transformed back into a woman, only to grab Graves by the collar and demand to know where Basile had gone, using French that even he could not understand.  She had not been pleased when Graves had said he returned to Quebec.

“We have reached an understanding, of sorts,”  Basile says,  “I don’t have the right to jealousy when her eye wanders, and she doesn’t make me feel like a bastard when I return to my clan.”

“I hope it works out for you two,”  Graves says sincerely.  He hopes it does, he’s spent years watching Ruby Mae and Basile pine for each other, their own careers and hopes for the future keeping them apart.  Yet, they always return to each other.

“It will, you’ll see.”  Basile nods sagely.  “If she’s seeing another man while I’m in town, we both agreed a _ménage à trois_ would be the best course of action to avoid conflict.”

Graves snorts in laughter.  “Naturally.  Just make sure her partner is aware of your intentions, _before_ you bring him into the bedroom.”

“Graves, I am hurt.  What do you take me for?”  Basile says with mock offence, sarcasm dripping off his tongue.  He holds the door open for Graves as they walk through, and he smiles at Basile in thanks.  There are so few people that Basile respects.  Graves is happy that he counts among them.

Tina stands in front of the evidence board they began putting together after their return from Boston.  It holds all the information they know, and it isn’t a lot.

“Director.  Mr. Tremblay,”  Tina greets.  She looks like she slept over at the office.  She’s wearing the same outfit from yesterday.  She cleaned it with a spell, but she obviously didn’t look in the mirror.  A lock of hair at her parting stands at attention, like it was licked by a mooncalf.  “I believe I may be onto something.”

“What, Tina?”  Graves slides up to her, a hand tucked in his pant pocket.  Holding back the temptation to reach out and fix her hair.  He may call her by her first name now, but that is still a familiarity he is uncomfortable with.  Instead he places the newspaper on the table, away from evidence.  He’ll deal with it later.

“The no-maj company that owns the abandoned building in Boston?  It think it’s a shell company for a bootlegger.  Their finances are too squeaky clean, like they’re deliberately trying to hide something.”  She gestures to the report she received from the no-maj owner, after they claimed to be policemen.

“Let me see that.”  He holds his hand out for the report, and Tina gives it over.  Quickly looking at all the logged information, he finds that Tina was right.  The report is too clean, too balanced, as if it was invented in the head of a secretary pressed for time.

“I’ve made some phone calls, and visited some offices,”  she says with a grimace.  Using no-maj technology can be confusing for some wizards.  Maybe that’s what Tina spent the whole night figuring out.  “And with a little magical convincing, managed to locate all the properties owned by the bootlegger.”

“You think the bootlegger is connected to the person who freed Grindelwald?”  Basile asks, reading over Graves’ shoulder.

“We don’t have any other leads,”  Tina says with a heavy sigh.

Graves snaps shut the report and hands it back to Tina with a smile.  “Good job, Tina, we’ll send out aurors to all properties within safe apparating distance from the Poughkeepsie marsh.  How many is that?”

She thinks it over.  “Approximately fifteen, sir.”

“How long will it take?”

“This case is top priority, so only a day, sir, if we send them in pairs.”

“Good.”  Graves nods.  “Make sure they’re well aware that they’re under strict orders to send a Patronus, before approaching any suspects.  If they see Grindelwald himself, they are permitted the use of Unforgivables, though they are advised to avoid attacking, and simply observe, while continuing to send reports.”  He neglects to mention the obvious—for any auror that spots Grindelwald, their Patronus is likely to be their swansong.  Grindelwald is simply too powerful for one or two wizards alone to handle.

“Will do, sir.”  Tina nods, then rushes off to draft up memos for the captains.

Graves leans against the table, arms folded over his chest as he studies the board.

“I don’t like this,”  Basile says.

Graves lifts his brow.  “You don’t like anything.”

Basile snorts.  “True, but I don’t like this in particular.  “How could a no-maj bootlegger have any connection to Grindelwald?”

Graves taps a finger against his elbow, thinking.  “Perhaps they are using the no-majs as a cover to smuggle illegal wizarding paraphernalia.”

Basile nods, considering.  “That would be smart.  I suppose MACUSA does not pay much attention to the illegalities of no-maj trafficking.”

“MACUSA is not under prohibition,”  Graves says.  “The smuggling of spirits is not a priority of ours.”

“Well, it is now.”  Basile chuckles, he gestures to the copy of the Ghost.  “Why are you carrying that around?  Did they publish something you want to save a clipping of, perhaps another hero piece?  I still remember the one the Prophet did on you and Scamander after the war.  You bought every paper you could get your hands on, didn’t you?  Something about Scamander looking so handsome in his uniform?”

“I will jinx you,”  Graves threatens half-heartedly.  He flips to the right page, and hands the Ghost over to Basile.  Skimming over the column, Basile lets out a long whistle.

“You now know why this reporter is stuck doing pieces on the seventh page.  News this juicy should have gotten you the second page, at least.  Evidently his editor doesn’t have much faith in his reporting.”

“I’ve been outed, Basile, at least to all my aurors.  They already know Credence is not my son, and now they know I like to hold his hand and smile at him.”

Basile nods.  He adjusts his glasses, pushing them back up the bridge of his nose as he studies the picture of Credence and him caught in laugher.  “You look happy with him, Graves.”

Graves smiles, taking the paper from Basile.  No matter how much Basile teases him about it, he’s going to save the photograph.  “He makes me happy.”

***

“Credence?”  Graves calls out tiredly as he pushes open his front door, a simple spell has the laces of his brogues coming undone, and he steps out of them.  Dolly’s shoes are gone, but Credence’s are there.  He must have just returned from the Goldstein’s.  Graves had sent him home with Queenie, knowing that he would be staying late.  He didn’t want to bore him with the amount of paperwork he had to get through.

“Percival,”  Credence calls from upstairs, his voice but a quiet tinny through the hardwood and plaster,  “I’m in the study.”

Graves ascends the staircase, looking forward to seeing his lover after such a long and grueling day.

Credence sits curled up in the study like he said, dressed in comfortable pants and shirt, a magazine in hand.  The back of Graves’ neck grows hot, imagining what kind of magazine Credence closes and places on the coffee table as he stands in greeting, a pleased smile on his lips.

“Welcome home,”  he says, wrapping his arms around Graves’ torso.

Credence’s tall frame dwarfs him in comparison, and Graves adores being held by him.  He loves that Credence feels safe enough to unfurl from that horrible posture his demon of a mother beat into him.

Credence hums happily as Graves returns the embrace, rubbing a solid hand down his lovely back, the knobs of his spine bumpy beneath his fingers.  It’s in times like these that Credence reminds Graves of a cat.  Every kind of feline—from a sly kneazle, to the most ferocious wampus—will turn to putty beneath the welcome hands of a trusted caretaker.  Graves cannot begin to count the amount of times he’s come home to Credence curled up in a warm shaft of sunlight.

“Where’s Dolly?”  Graves murmurs into Credence’s ear.

“With friends,”  Credence replies, pausing, “And a suitor.”

“Really?”  Graves asks with raised brows

“Please don’t tease her,”  Credence requests.

“I will do no such thing,”  Graves promises even though he fully intends to tease Dolly about this new suitor, at least until he gets smacked on the ass with a broom.

“Liar,”  Credence’s body vibrates as he laughs.  He pulls back to look at Graves, a gentle look in his eye.  “But you are handsome to make up for it.”

Graves hums, taking the compliment with grace, as he puts forth his own praise.  “ _T'es tellement beau quand tu souris_ , darling, a cherry on top of the cake that is your lovely sweetness.”

A flush settles on the top of Credence’s cheekbones, and Graves delights in it.  He wants a kiss, but before he can ask for one, Credence beats him to the request.  His long lashes cast shadows on his cheekbones as he asks, and Graves smiles in acquiescence.

Credence’s worn but gentle hands tighten around Graves’ waist.  He has to bend slightly to leave a lingering kiss on the edge of Graves’ jaw.  His lips are soft like the petals of a tulip, and his eyes swim with intense affection, a fact that will never cease to surprise him.

Graves adores him so.

The next kiss is placed upon his lips—gentle sweetness seeping into his every pore.  Graves is just a man in the arms of his beautiful lover, but when Credence holds him close, looks at him like he means the world to him.  He feels like he could be a knight from the tales his mother used to spin—a man strong and unrelenting, but who wears no armor while he is with his lady.

Arms slide up his back, gripping tight his shoulders.  Credence pulls him so close, until he feels the thumping of his heart against his own.  He closes his eyes, and the slip of his lips against Graves’ own feels like a prayer whispered between them.  Why shouldn’t it be?  Prayers are how Credence wields his magic, it only makes sense that they’re how he wields his love.

His breath escapes in a long exhale as they part.

They’re chest to chest, face to face.  Credence is a shattered wand, he thrives with an obscurus inside him, he’s a man with scars burnt and sliced into his flesh, and he’s a knight just as much as Graves is.

He slides a hand up Credence’s neck, playing with the longer hairs growing out of his shorter cut.  Graves could die at this moment, and he would go into the ether with a smile on his face.  Credence’s lips are red, as they always are, he’s eternally biting them, unrelenting in his fixation.  It was once nervousness, but now Graves suspects it has become lust.

Credence looks at Graves, his eyes tracing the nose his mother gave him, to the lips that were his father’s.  Credence bites his lip as his eyes caress.  Graves pulls him closer, then bites it for him.

***

“I promised you a story,”  Credence says, looking up from his position in Graves lap, blinking sleepy, half-closed eyes.

They’re curled together, Graves leaning back against the armrest, one leg folded under the other.  Credence’s weight is heavy on his calf as he lies along the recamier, his long legs hanging over the other end.  Graves knows that when he stands, pins and needles will go through it.  At the moment, though, he doesn’t care.

He’s pulled his tie out of its knot, and his jacket is lying on his desk.  He’s even undone the last few buttons of his waistcoat.  He feels comfortable with Credence so near, with his weight pressing against him so.  It feels like security.  In this room, nothing can disturb them, nothing can tear them apart, not even a fanatic on the loose.

Graves hums, uncommitted.  “You seem tired, it can wait another day.”

“I’m not tired,”  Credence argues, just as he lets out a wide yawn.  Graves raises a brow.  “I’m not,”  he repeats,  “I’m content.  I’m happy.”

Graves cannot resist bending over to teasingly kiss his nose, even as his back strains with the position he’s in.  He’s not getting any younger.  “As am I, darling,”

“Percival,”  Credence says seriously,  “Let me read it to you.”

“If that’s what you want,”  Graves relents.  He lays his arm along the backrest, settling in for a tale about his namesake, one that he has surely never heard before.

Credence whispers, though they’re close enough that Graves can hear everything he says.  “Lord, I pray for the words I wish to share, and for the strength, could I only speak.”  He lifts his hand, and a magazine flies into the room, straight into his grasp.  Credence smiles up at him, but it’s brittle, so easy to shatter.  Graves touches him, runs his thumb along the hollow of his cheek.  Graves thinks his prayers are wondrous, and he hopes Credence feels the same.

Credence flips through the magazine, Graves doesn’t remove his thumb, hesitant to stop his ministrations.

“ _A Tale of the Knight Perceval and the Fisher King,_ ”  Credence reads.  Graves remembers the Fisher King.  The king’s encounter with his namesake was one of his favourite stories—despite Perceval’s many mistakes.

The Fisher King is a wounded king, harmed by the piercing of the bleeding lance, a punishment for his philandering.  His impotence spells the end of his dynasty, until a knight would come forth and ask a simple question, healing him.

That knight is never Perceval.

In the original poem, the Fisher King invites him into his castle, but Perceval never asks the question that would heal the king.  He’s too beholden to his silence.  Too afraid.  He says not a word, and awakens to the end of the king’s dynasty, the kingdom fallen to ruins.

“ _The lance is paraded into the grand hall of the Fisher King,”_  Credence reads, “ _Fresh blood beads from the tip, spilling down the sides.  The bearer’s arms can barely encircle its girthy width._

“ _Perceval turns to the lovely king at his side, breath hot as he whispers, “Was this the beast that did the deed?”  He runs a hard hand down the king’s thigh, stopping before he touches the wound.  It heals before his lusty eyes._ ”

Graves closes his eyes, listening.  Credence’s voice is soft, but confident, he doesn’t stumble as he reads, doesn’t hesitate.  He is very familiar with this text.

“ _“My saviour, my knight,”  the king says, his delicate arms like the stems of flowers wrapped around Perceval’s waist,  “I have nothing worthy of the gift you have given me.  All the gold in my kingdom cannot possibly be reward enough.”_

“ _Perceval gazes into eyes so blue, so ageless.  “It is not gold I seek, your grace, all I desire is you.”_

“ _The Fisher King rubs his hand along the lacings of Perceval’s tunic.  “Then you shall have me, but only for a night.  You will awaken, and I will be gone.  I am not yours, my lord, for I belong to my kingdom.”_ ”

Credence’s lashes flutter as his eyes move down the page.  Graves glances out the window, watching the red sun set on the horizon, turning the sky a vibrant salmon pink.  Credence tells him how the Fisher King leads Perceval to his bedroom, how he strips him of his clothes, eager to get to his skin.  How he orders him to bathe his body, until he is free of sweat and a hard day’s work, before he may even think of laying his hands on his kingly body.

Credence’s cheeks pinken until his blush blooms the colour of the sky.  He tells Graves of the Fisher King beckoning a nude Perceval forward, into his bed.  He lies, spread out, body long and inviting, waiting for the knight to come claim his reward.

“ _As the world turns, as the night gives away to day, Perceval has never seen a figure so magnificent.  The Fisher King reaches for him, and he is helpless to obey.  He goes where he is guided, where he is wanted.  The hardness that presses against him is a study of opposites, a velvet sword, a silken wand.  Perceval’s desire swells like a wave in his chest._

“Percival?”  Credence asks, looking up at him, his eyes heavy-lidded and dark.

“Yes, sweet Credence?”  Graves’ voice cracks.  Thunder brews in his throat.

“Are you enjoying the story?”

“I daresay I am.”  Graves’ thumb slips along Credence’s jaw, the heat of his flush burns like lightning.  “Would you continue, darling?”

Credence nods, gaze flitting back to the magazine.  “ _The Fisher King lies beneath the knight, their hands clasped.  The thrust and pull of their bodies, the ebb and flow of their spirits, Perceval has never before felt such belonging._ ”

Credence licks his lips.  “ _The silken prick inside him fills him in ways he has only ever imagined.  He cries out, pain and pleasure one and the same.  Sweat beads at the hollow of his throat, flowing down his chest, to his own hardness standing at attention._ ”

Graves feels Credence shudder, he watches the goose pimples rise on his pale skin.  His white shirt cannot hide the way this passage makes him feel.  Graves slides his hand down Credence’s chest, right above his heart.  His thumb nudges a stiff nipple.  It would be innocent, if not for the way it makes Credence gasp.

“ _The Fisher King’s eyes glow the deepest blue, Perceval cannot tear his gaze away, they hold him fast, as do the thorny arms around his waist.  “Harder, my lord,”  the king pleads,  “Take me into you.  Take me, have me, fuck me.”_ ”

Graves makes a noise like he’s been stabbed.  It startles Credence, he looks up from his reading, concern in his eyes.  Graves thought he knew what he would be getting into if he let Credence read erotica to him, but the idea of it had seemed much more tame than the reality.

Credence lifts himself onto his elbow, turning around to face him.  He braces a hand on Graves’ thigh, holding up his weight.  “Percival?”  He asks, brow furrowed.  He places the magazine face down on the coffee table and pushes back Graves’ hair.  He doesn’t know what his expression is like, but from the look on Credence’s face, it must be something worrisome.  “Are you alright?”

Graves swallows.  He lifts his two hands and holds them to Credence’s cheeks.  Their skin is bathed in twilight as he presses their foreheads together.  Credence’s fingers clutch at his trousers, and Graves pulls him into a kiss.

Credence is his Fisher King, his love.  He’s the boy with wounds on his skin that words can wish away, but whose scars will always remain.  He holds his heart captive, but it is a captivity Graves never wants to escape.

“I love you so much, sweet Credence,”  Graves says against his lips.

“I love you too,”  Credence says back.

“I want you so much that sometimes I cannot stand it,”  Graves confesses, sliding his hands down to Credence’s neck, thumbs rubbing at his jaw.

Credence’s voice cracks as he says,  “I want you too.”  He slides onto his knees, until he faces Graves fully.  With his weight gone, he feels the creeping of pins and needles down his leg, but he ignores it.  Graves stretches his leg out, bracing it against the floor.  The ache will fade, but this moment cannot be broken.

“Can I touch you?”  Graves asks.

“You are touching me.”

Graves smiles at him, forever patient when it comes to Credence.  “Can I touch you to bring you pleasure?”  Credence mouth falls open ever so lightly, and Graves cannot resist laying a delicate kiss upon it.  “Can I touch your cock?”

Credence’s throat clicks dryly.  “I… I’d like that.”

“Good.”

“But I want you to feel just as good.  Could we… I read this...”  Credence stumbles over his words, blushing terribly.  “I would like to try something I read about.  I just want to know if it’s…”

“Feasible?”  Graves grins.

“Yes, I suppose that’s one way of putting it,”  Credence says in a rush,  “I’ve done it by myself.  Of course under your roof, never at the church, Ma would have known and she would have had my hide.”

“Credence,”  Graves says softly,  “Breathe.”

Credence inhales shakily.  “I want to try it with you.”

Graves is long past inexperienced fumbling in Ilvermorny’s many broom closets, but he is Credence’s first, and he must make concessions for him.  Not that Graves is unlikely to enjoy whatever they try.  He feels much more for Credence than he ever did for Erasmus Selwyn, or even Rohan Potter.

“What do you want to try?”

Credence blushes, casting his gaze down.  “Let me show you?”

Graves nods, and Credence seems to gather his strength.  His eyes are full of determination as he pushes Graves back fully, until his head touches the armrest.  He climbs on top of Graves then, settling in his lap.  His hands automatically flutter down to rest at Credence’s hips.  Their position echoes that of Perceval and the Fisher King, though with noticeably more clothes.

Credence leans forward and kisses him, hands braced on either side of his head.  He licks Percival’s lip, kissing him deeper than ever before.  Graves is hard, and Credence has to feel it, he’s sitting right on top of him, but he’s taking his sweet time.  He isn’t in a rush.  He has much more patience than Graves’ teenage self ever did.

Credence peppers kisses along his cheek, down his jawline, a circle that returns him back to Graves’ longing mouth.  He cannot help the smile it brings to his lips.  He lifts a hand from Credence’s waist, wrapping it around his forearm, just so he can touch his bare skin, to feel him.  He wants nothing more than to always feel Credence, next to him, on top of him, beneath him.  He wants him in all ways.

Credence presses their foreheads together.  Their eyes are open, but no words pass between them.  There’s no need, the way they look at each other communicates everything that it needs to.

Credence smiles at him, then shifts his hips, grinding against him.  His fingers tighten around Credence’s hips, before he remembers to check his strength.  His breath is shaky as he exhales.  Credence watches his face as he moves above him, his hand grips at Graves’ shoulder for leverage, and his eyes are calculating, watching to see how much pleasure he’s getting out of this.

Graves wants to turn the tide.  He wants them both to have pleasure from this position.  He lets go of his wrist, and moves his hand to the front of Credence’s trousers.  He rubs his palm along the bulge.  It makes Credence's movements stutter, eyes open wide and pupils blown.  Credence’s lips are red with how hard he’s gnawing at them, and he stares down at Graves, frenzied like a vicious beast kicking its heels.

Graves’ hand moves up to the fastening of his trousers, but before he can undo them, Credence pulls away.  He climbs off his lap, but stays on the recamier, between his spread legs.  He settles with Graves’ legs hanging over his thighs, and this time it’s his turn to touch.

He looks down at what he’s doing as he runs a palm from the seam of Graves’ pants, right over his crotch.  The contact is light, a ghost of a touch.  It’s Credence feeling himself out, getting used to all that is laid out in front of him.  Graves, ready, and willing for him to take.

He smiles down at his lap, before his eyes flitter up.  He’s like a wampus cat when he moves, all long lines and power contained in such an elegant frame.  His kisses are like whispers as he peppers them over his jaw and neck.  His hips settle fully against Graves’, and this time they’re facing each other.  When Credence thrusts, sparks light up in his vision.  He lays his head back against the armrest, body jerking with desire.

Graves lays his hands upon Credence’s shoulders, pressing him closer.  He moans into his neck as Credence grinds down upon him.  He bites at the earlobe in front of him, hissing when Credence’s hands grip tight enough at his shirt for the seams to strain.

Credence is desperation.  He has everything that he has spent most of his life abstaining from laid out in front of him.  The noises he makes as he takes what he wants, tastes like sweet pleasure in Graves' ears.

Credence finds his release with a wounded cry, his arms shake and he collapses bodily.  Graves wraps his arms around this fragile body he cares so much for, petting his hair until he ceases in his shaking.  Graves feels tears against his neck, and he pulls Credence back to have a good look at him.

“Are you alright?”  He asks, thumbing the tears away.

Credence smiles at him, even as he continues to cry.  “I love you so much,”  he says.  He undoes the front of Graves’ trousers, reaching in, he pulls him out to the open.  He’s leaking so much he needs nothing to ease the way.

With a hand cradled to Credence’s cheek and the other wrapped around his neck, Graves watches as he is stroked to completion.  Credence’s tears trail down his cheeks and fall to Graves’ chest, but the smile he wears says more than words ever could.

***

The whimpering wakes him, but what really catches his attention is the clutch of Credence’s fingers at his back.  He has Graves’ nightshirt balled up in his fists, as he murmurs and groans in his sleep.  The shadows in the room deepen, spreading like dark tendrils.  They swallow the moon whole, and only then does Graves turn around, pulling himself out of Credence’s grip, waking him.

“Percival?”  Credence blinks up at him, pearl white eyes wet with tears.  “I… I cannot—”

“Credence, darling, you must control it.”  He runs his thumb under one of Credence’s glassy eyes.  “Whatever it was, it was just a dream.”

“No.”  Credence shakes his head, voice brittle.  “It was a memory.”

The shadows encroach on their bed.  One wraps its inky black tentacle around his ankle.  It tugs on his skin, cold as ice, but it’s the fear that has him shivering.

“You’re releasing the obscurus,”  Graves whispers.

“Perhaps that’s what it needs,”  Credence says with an eerie distance.  “To be allowed loose.  It would find him then, it would have its revenge.”

“MACUSA will find Grindelwald,”  Graves attempts to reassure, wrapping his arms around Credence, surprised when he finds a body devoid of all heat.  His voice shakes as he says, “My love, we will find him, and you will have your justice.”

“It doesn’t want Grindelwald, it wants the killer.”  Credence’s voice is like nothing he has heard before, it rasps and it echoes like a drum in Graves’ skull.  It’s ageless and childish all at once.  “The man that murdered the mother—the one who stole the boy’s innocence.  It thirsts for his blood.”

“Credence, what—”

Graves cries in pain as the tendril around his ankle tightens like a tourniquet.  Through the haze of agony, he hears an awful snap.

He screams.

The darkness flees as Credence sits in a hurry, his eyes back to their regular colour.  Graves holds his leg, biting his lips lest he let out another blood-curdling scream.  When Credence slips off the bed, jostling him, he slams his fist against the headboard in pain.

“Percival, I—”

“Get the Skele-Gro from the medicine cabinet, hurry,”  Graves says through clenched teeth.  Credence looks at him with wide eyes, then turns on his heel and flees the bedroom.  He doesn’t summon it with a prayer, he must be too afraid of what the obscurus has done.

He returns a few moments later with the bottle and a spoon.  Credence administers the dose with a shaking hand, and Graves drinks it with a grimace.  They say nothing to each other as the broken bones in Graves’ ankles knit back together.  It must have been a closed fracture because it only takes a few minutes.

Credence cannot look at him.  He clutches his hands in front of his body, staring down at his shoes.  His shoulders are slumped.  He reminds Graves so much of the boy that materialized in his office months ago.

“Credence…”  Graves trails off, not knowing how to begin.  It wasn’t his fault, and he needs to be sure Credence understands that.

“I need to go,”  Credence chokes out, disappearing out the door.

Graves stares after him.  He moves until he sits on the edge of the bed.  Aching, he stands.

The walk down the stairs is not as bad as he expected, but he’s moving with a limp.  He’ll be fine in the morning, until then, his bones will creak.  Credence was not in his room, but Graves had seen the firelight shining from the stairwell.  He’s just glad he had not left the brownstone.

Graves finds him curled in an armchair, arms wrapped around his calves, fire casting his face in deep shadow.  Graves lowers himself into the other chair, unable to hold back a groan at the pressure it puts on his ankle.

“I’m sorry,”  Credence whispers shakily.

“I know you are,”  Graves says patiently.

“I didn’t mean to—”  Credence hiccups, and his back shakes as he cries so painfully, so pitifully.  Graves wants to pull him closer and comfort him, but he knows his touch won’t be welcome, at least until Credence forgives himself.

“You would never hurt me on purpose.  It was the obscurus.”

“I should be able to control it by now.  Newt warned me that using wandless magic would interfere with it, but I didn’t listen, and then it hurt you.”

“It wasn’t your magic,”  Graves turns in his chair to look at Credence, but he continues to stare into the fire, his posture like that of a beaten dog,  “It was your nightmare that brought it out.”

Credence shivers.  “It was horrible.”

Graves reaches out to touch his arm, but he flinches away.  “You mentioned your mother, was it Mary Lou?”

Credence shakes his head.  “Not Mary Lou.  My real mother.”

Graves breathes in deeply.  “You remember her?”

“Bits and pieces, but it's coming back to me,”  he sighs, and says,  “She was a witch.”

Credence said that his mother was murdered by a man who got away with the deed, but how would he know that?

“He killed her in front of me.”  The fire cracks, and Credence shudders, his body is one giant hurt in need of healing.  He’s falling apart, cracking at the edges, and Graves is helpless to do anything but watch.  The tulips in the painting above the mantle dip, as if they feel Credence’s pain, and want to reach for him, to comfort him.

“Do you know who he is?  If you have a name, I could find him.  I could have him brought to justice through the proper channels.”  He killed a witch, the punishment will be harsh.  Most importantly, it will bring Credence peace.

“He delivered me to Ma, like Chastity before me, and Modesty after me.  That was his purpose, he brought children to Ma.”

“His name, do you know his name?”

“Ma called him Uriel.  She called him the flame of God.”  Credence clutches at his head, knuckles white in strain.  Graves is scared he might pull hair from his head.  “He couldn’t have been an angel, that’s impossible, an angel would never murder a… _witch_.”

“Credence,”  Graves says, hoping to catch his attention,  “He’s not an angel, he’s a man who murdered an innocent woman and stole her son.”  Credence looks at him then, firelight shining in his tear-filled eyes.  “He stole you away, he stole your life away, and made you grow up under the thumb of an abusive woman.  You say your god only knows love, how then could that man be an agent of his?”

“I don’t know, Percival.”  Credence dashes his tears from his eyes.  “I don’t know what is going on, why I’m having these dreams.  The last time I saw him was after he brought Modesty to Ma.”

“What happened to her family?”

“I don’t know.  Grindelwald took me there when he thought Modesty was the obscurial.  The house was empty, it looked like it had been abandoned for years.”

Graves purses his lips in thought.  This Uriel might have killed Modesty’s family, like he did Credence’s mother.

“He’s going to come after me,”  Credence says,  “I killed Mary Lou, and he loved her.”

“Was he her husband?  A relation?  If he shares her last name he should be easier to find.”

“I don’t think so.”  Credence shakes his head.  “Ma said she would never marry, she wanted to dedicate herself to the cause.  Uriel was a member of her congregation.  He doesn’t live in New York, I think.”

“Where then?”

“I don’t know.”  Credence screws his face in concentration.  “A city for sure, he mentioned that he drives a taximeter cab.”

“Credence,”  Graves says seriously, drawing his attention.  Graves holds his gaze as he asks.  “Do you know for certain that he is no-maj?”

Mary Lou Barebone felt very strongly about magic—the scars on Credence’s hands and back are proof alone.  He cannot imagine that she would willingly associate with a wizard, but it is nearly impossible for a no-maj to kill a witch or wizard.  He would have had to catch Credence’s mother off guard, either that or he used a—

“A gun.  He shot her dead with a gun,”  Credence gasps,  “And it burned a hole straight through her chest.”

Graves’ breath catches in his throat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> T'es tellement beau quand tu souris - You're so beautiful when you smile (once again, thanks to Shigure_Natsu for the conjugation help!)
> 
> next update will be latest three weeks, earliest two.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey, so, it’s been a while, umm, sorry about this chapter

Roland’s eyes glow a dark red in the coals.  They’re normally blue, like their father’s, but the fire washes all colour except for shades of red and oranges, a hint of green remaining from the floo powder.  Graves wishes more than anything that he could look into his brother’s real eyes, instead of this fiery copy.

“Do you remember Erasmus Selwyn?”  Roland asks, chewing his bottom lip, a familiar tic from their childhood.

Graves could never forget Erasmus Selwyn.  He was very talented with his tongue.

Roland does not know of their short tryst—they kept it to broom closets, and empty classrooms.  Graves wanted to enter a career in politics, and he couldn't afford any scandals.  At the tender age of seven, his mother had convinced him that politics was a perfect outlet for his need to control everything and anything around him.  He always knew what he wanted to do with his life, which is why political rivals are hard pressed to find any dirt in his past.

Graves hums, uncommitted.

“Yeah, turns out the bloke’s taken up with Grindelwald’s followers.  He was captured and shipped back to London before his plots could come to anything.”

“Erasmus?”  Graves says in disbelief, his voice cracking.  He remembers a sandy-haired boy always keen to sneak away to a secluded corner of the castle, unless exams were eminent.  Erasmus had said he wanted to return to Europe to be absorbed back into main branch of his family.  Taking up with Grindelwald, and believing in his nationalistic goals are so far from expected it is almost unbelievable.

“His trial is in a few weeks.  He’s accused of torturing non-humans and no-majs.”  Roland continues,  “It was in the Prophet.  Want me to send you a copy?”

“Please,”  Graves says, still stunned.

Roland frowns as he looks at Graves, his expression turning sad.  “You knew him well, didn’t you.”  It isn’t a question.

“I thought I did,”  Graves says tightly.

Roland purses his lips in pity.  “I’ll arrange a subscription for you.  Dark wizards are stirring up shit in Berlin among the no-majs, but they’re being careless.  The Ministry thinks they’re working on their own, that Grindelwald is not in Europe.  If he is, they aren’t telling us.”

Graves sighs, his shoulders aching with the weight of responsibility.  He’s never felt this way before about his career, he’s always been able to take what’s been thrown at him.  He’s always been able to look at any situation impersonally, but not anymore.  He has a personal stake in making sure Grindelwald is put away, and it’s taking its toll on him.

“That’s all the Ministry knows, Rolls.  He’s dust in the wind as far as any of us can tell.  MACUSA is working on it, but the investigation is going nowhere.”

Graves carries the photograph of the mutilated body of the woman that must be Credence’s mother in his jacket pocket.  He needs to work up the courage to show it to Credence soon.  He needs to be certain it is her.  She’s the only clue they have.  If he solves her murder, and finds this _Uriel,_ he’ll be one step closer to catching Grindelwald.

He’s not looking forward to it, but it has to be done.

***

Graves stands in front of the bathroom mirror running pomade through his hair when the door opens and Credence steps through, closing it after himself.  Graves sees him in the mirror, as he twirls his wand, his hair styling itself.  Credence watches silently, expression unreadable as he leans against the closed door.

Credence has put tonic in his hair, and the long black strands are kissing his shirt clad shoulders.  It’s Queenie’s day off, and he’s going out with her instead of with Graves to work.  He was evasive last night when Graves asked where she was taking him.

Graves respects his need for privacy, they’ve been living in each other’s pockets for months now, and he _understands_.  It doesn’t mean he cannot be worried about him.  Grindelwald is still out there.  It doesn't matter that Credence walks straighter than before, that he’s wearing his hair long, that his skin is healthier, and that he has more meat on his bones—Grindelwald has prophetic dreams about him.  That alone is enough.

“I love your hair,”  Credence says quietly, and suddenly he’s standing beside Graves’, a hand on his shoulder, the other just touching his belt.  He’s an inch or two taller when he unfurls his spine.  “Have I told you that before?”

“You haven’t,”  Graves says, putting his wand down.  His hand shakes ever so slightly, and his wand clatters against the porcelain, loud in the quiet bathroom.  Credence pretends not to notice the tremor.

Credence lifts a hand and trails it down the side of his face, a ghost of a touch, expression as blank as a sheet of freshly fallen snow.  “I love the wrinkles at the corners of your eyes, surely I’ve told you that before?”

Graves smiles, shaking his head, meeting Credence’s eyes in the mirror.  “I’d remember if you had.”

Credence hums, sliding his hand around the back of his head, fingers running through the fall of his hair, mussing the styling.  Graves finds he cares not a bit.  A light push and he tilts Graves’ face to his.  “Your nose then, I know I told you I adore it?”

Graves feels warmth at every place Credence touches him, the hand in his hair, the long finger tapping at his waist.

“I do not think so,”  Graves says, amused by Credence’s compliments.

His gaze dip from Graves’ eyes.  “Your lips, then?”

“My lips?”  Graves asks incredulously, a breath of laughter leaving said lips.  “My lips are thin, and undesirable.”

Credence frowns, and his hand falls from Graves’ head.  He’s about to beg for him to put it back, but before can do more than open his mouth, Credence’s thumb lands on the center of his bottom lip, pressing it open ever so slightly.  His teeth graze the tip of his thumb.  “I love your lips,”  he whispers gravelly.

Graves kisses his thumb dismissively, and Credence’s frown deepens.  Graves is about to pull away, to finish getting ready, but before he can, Credence’s grip on his waist tightens and he finds himself pulled even closer.

Credence says nothing as he dips his head down to press a chaste kiss to Graves’ mouth.  As he pulls back, he repeats, “I love your lips.”

“What is this about?”  Graves asks, but Credence steps back, smiling enigmatically.  He’s almost to the door before Graves clears his throat, and says to Credence’s reflection,  “Is that all?”  Stopping him in his tracks.

“All?”  Credence says, tipping his head to the side, the picture of confusion, until the corner of his mouth twitches and _oh_.  He’s teasing.

Graves whirls around and crosses the room, his eyes on Credence the whole time.  That twitch grows into a full fledged smile.  Graves cups a hand around Credence’s neck and hauls him close.  Credence’s arms come up and go around his neck as Graves kisses him, a proper kiss, not at all chaste like the one he was given.  He wraps an arm around Credence’s waist and pushes him back against the door.

He trails kisses from Credence’s mouth to his cheek, pushing his head to the side so he can reach his ear, he draws his teeth down the helix, ending with a bite to the fleshy lobe.  Credence’s hands slip down until he’s holding Graves by his elbow.

Graves pulls back, barely, just so he has room to whisper in Credence’s ear.  “Your ears are my favourite part of you.  You moan so pretty when I bite—”  Hearing Credence gasp, he nips the lobe again for good measure, then peppers kisses down his jaw, to his neck, then even further, pulling at the collar of his shirt revealing those collarbones.  “—I want to kiss you all over.  I want to suck you.”

Credence’s shirt buttons undo themselves, and Graves chuckles at the show of magic.  He doesn’t think it was voluntary on Credence’s part.  His eyes are closed, head thrown back in bliss.  He tugs the collar of Credence’s shirt down further and bites at his shoulder, pulling the skin into his mouth and sucking at it.  Graves’ breathing comes harsh and loud as Credence whimpers.  He groans when Credence’s hands fall to the waistband of his trousers, yanking up his shirt, partially untucking it.

The door opens behind them.

Graves tries to catch himself on the jamb but misses, and then they’re both falling, until they aren’t.  Hovering a few inches from the ground, Graves looks up to Dolly, her hands on her hips.  She smirks and they drift slowly to the floor.  Credence is the colour of a ripe apple as he lies beneath him, and he cannot seem to meet Graves’ eye.

Dolly is trying not to laugh, failing terribly at the endeavour.  “Dolly thinks congratulations are in order.”

Graves clears his throat and climbs off Credence, offering a hand to help him up.  Credence stares over his shoulder, face still incredibly red.

“Yes, well,”  Graves says, sweeping his hands over the front of his waistcoat, trying to preserve his dignity,  “Very good, Dolly.”

She smirks.  She must be hiding goblin blood somewhere in her ancestry, because it is devious.  “Young master did look like he was enjoying himself.  Very good indeed.”

Credence coughs, ducking his head.  “Queenie’s waiting for me,”  he mumbles, and suddenly he’s gone from the hallway, feet thumping down the stairs.  Downstairs Graves hears the rush of the floo, then silence.

“Hmm...”  Dolly trails off.  If she had eyebrows, she’d be waggling them.  Graves is sorely tempted to lower her salary.  “Which bedroom will young master and his lover be using from now on?”

Graves purses his lips, and considers marching off in a huff, but he needs to tell her so she can move Credence’s belongings.

“Mine,”  he mutters, running his hand through his hair, fixing it where it sticks up.  His hand is no longer shaking.  “I’ll convert Credence’s old room into a study.”

Dolly’s smile grows even wider, if possible.

***

The photograph of the woman with a hole burned right through her chest, lies on top of the papers scattered on Graves’ desk.  She looks so much like Credence, it’s impossible to unsee the similarities between them.  His hair was so long and beautiful this morning, like hers.  When Credence wears the tonic during the day, and forgets to remove it before bed, his hair spreads on his pillow exactly as the woman’s does on the cold cobblestones of the New York street where she died.

He has her nose.  The photo is small and unclear, but she is pale and dead, and her skin stands in contrast to all the darkness around her.  She was murdered brutally in front of Credence, shot with the same gun that killed O’Malley.  And it must be the same gun.  No-maj weapons do not function like this, the gun must be enchanted, perhaps even cursed for it to cause such dark destruction.

The woman lies cold and prone, and Graves realizes he could never show it to Credence.  It’s the only known photograph of his mother, but better he never sees it.  Better he remembers her alive than have an image of her dead.  At least he has his memories.

Graves blinks.  How could he be this stupid?  Credence has his _memories_.

A knock sounds on his door, and Graves calls distractly for the visitor to come in.  He cannot remember if he has an appointment.

His secretary pokes her head through, a smile on her face.  “Mr. Barebone here to see you, sir.”

Graves barely has time to slip the photograph into a drawer before Credence steps around Miriam, thanking her.  She shuts the door behind him, giving them privacy.

“I thought you were spending the day with Queenie?”  Graves asks, just noticing the paper box Credence holds in his arms.  It’s nondescript, no logo printed on it.

“I was.  She took me to see her friend again, he runs a bakery,”  he says, walking over and placing the box in the only empty space on his desk.  “I bought lunch, Miriam said you haven’t eaten.”

Now that Graves thinks about it, he is feeling a tad peckish.  He leans closer.  “What did you bring?”

Credence sits in one of the uncomfortable seats he keeps opposite his desk, and the box opens without any prompting or muttered prayers, surprising Graves.  It reminds him of Credence unbuttoning his own shirt with magic this morning.  If only they weren’t interrupted, he could have seen what other magic he could do while lost in the throes of pleasure.  Graves hides the flush that comes to his cheeks by ducking his head and pulling out a sandwich made with a dark, malty rye.

“That one’s mine,”  Credence says, and it floats from Graves’ grasp.  Credence reaches in, and pulls out another one, handing it to him.  He chuckles and takes the lighter coloured sandwich, tipping it in cheers.

“Thank you.”

Credence nods, and takes a bite out of his sandwich.  They eat in a comfortable silence.  Graves holds his sandwich with one hand, his quill with the other as he goes over the report Devi had her junior auror, Reed, deliver to his inbox a half hour ago.  She’s been running the boy ragged, instead of using the usual office memos.  She calls it training.  Reed seems all too happy to do it for her, the boy idolizes Devi with stars in his eyes.  She’s a legend among Ilvermorny students, and Graves understands why, she manifested her heron at the ripe young age of thirteen, when most only try after they graduate.

Devi’s the best at undercover work, and has been coordinating the effort to observe the bootlegger properties that Tina discovered, looking for any sign of Grindelwald.  She’s put in a request to enter one of the properties to perform an invasive search, and Graves quickly signs off on it, sending it off with the wave of his wand.

“Credence?”  Graves says, after both their lunches have been reduced to crumbs, and full bellies,  “Might I ask something of you?”

Credence lowers the napkin he had been using to wipe his mouth, waiting for Graves to continue.

“Do you know what a pensieve is?”

Credence nods.  “It’s used to review memories.”

Graves takes a deep breath.  “I am going to ask you for something personal, and it may seem unreasonable, or an invasion of your privacy, but you must know I only have your well being in mind.”

Credence frowns, and he looks at Graves suspiciously.  He clutches the napkin in his fist, eyes flying to the empty box, then quickly back to Graves.

“What memory do you want?”  He asks warily.

Intelligent, perceptive Credence.

“One of your mother, the clearest memory you have,”  Graves says.  Credence relaxes just enough for Graves to notice that he had been holding himself stiff up until that moment.  He chooses his next words carefully, not wanting to give Credence false hope.  “I suspect that the man who killed her may have freed Grindelwald.”

Credence stares at him for one long moment, his composed expression flickering, but then he nods, acquiescing.

“Tell me how to do it,”  he says.

“Think of the memory you wish to share,”  Graves starts, and Credence closes his eyes,  “Bring it to the forefront of your mind, concentrate on it, and only it, and try to make it as clear as possible.  Your mind is naturally unable to remember clearly, but the pensieve will help fill in the details that you cannot connect.  Are you thinking of it?”

“Yes,”  Credence whispers.

“Hold it still, and give it over to me,”  Graves says.  He waves his wand and one of his cabinets open, a vial flying over into his hand.  “Let me have it, Credence.”

Credence’s brows furrow, and he rubs his temple with a knuckle.  When he pulls away a long, wispy tendril follows.  It’s small, weak, could barely be anything more than a whisper on a cold day, but it’s there.  Graves takes hold of it with a swish of his wand, and directs it to flow into the vial where it settles to the bottom in a small puddle.

“Might I watch it with you?”  Credence asks, voice mild but firm—he will not take no for an answer.

Graves pushes back his chair and stand.  He unlocks a cabinet with a spell only he knows, and it opens to reveal a small silver coloured bowl, filled to the brim with memories.  Everything from evidence collected, to personal ones he wished to revisit not only remember.  He should not be mixing business with pleasure, but before Grindelwald, he spent most of his time in his office.

There’s one of him and Erasmus that he’s going to have to fish out and discard later.  Graves could never revisit it again without thinking of the man he’s become, no matter that it was one of the more pleasant memories of his time at Ilvermorny.

 _Merlin_ , he wonders if Grindelwald watched it and laughed.

Shaking off that awful thought, he pours the contents of the vial into the pensieve and it floats about, eventually coalescing into an image of a small tenement room, plaster cracked and flaking off the wall, rough hewn floorboards spotted with nails and popped out knots.  A dark-haired woman stands over a cast iron stove, stirring.  He cannot see Credence, but he likely sits in the one wobbly chair by the table.  A ratty dress that must have once been dyed a brilliant scarlet draped is over the back of it.

“That’s my memory,”  Credence says in awe, coming to stand right beside him,  “It’s so clear.”

Graves slides his hand into Credence’s.  “Hold your breath,”  he instructs, and then they’re falling.  Vertigo makes his head rush and his ears pop, but the weight of Credence’s hand keeps him steady.

The floor that forms beneath their feet does not creak, though Graves knows it should.  He looks to Credence and finds him staring in wide-eyed wonder at the tenement room around them.  They stand behind the chair, and the woman turns around wearing a beautiful, and painfully familiar smile.  Graves’ heart clenches in his chest.  Her son has the same smile.

She’s the woman from the photograph, without a doubt.  Credence’s mother.  She’s the very picture of her son, the same dark eyes, the same sloping nose, her hair is just as dark and thick.  Her skirt falls to her ankles, her blouse worn as thin as her once scarlet dress.  The ghost of a bruise lies on her cheekbone, faded to a dull yellow.  She’s a woman faded by time, and by strife, ashen, but for in the jewelry she wears: the bangles around her wrists, and the necklace of hammered silver circles around her neck.

Credence’s hand tightens painfully around his, and Graves looks over, finding him with tears in his eyes.

“She doesn’t look so tired in my memories, she’s always hazy, but she’s still beautiful,”  Credence says sadly.

“The pensieve tells no lies,”  Graves says,  “Your emotions transform memories.  You loved your mother, so she will always be beautiful to you.”

Credence’s mother bends in front of the chair, she picks up a child no older than five with a mop of pitch black hair falling over his eyes, cheeks plump and red.   _Credence_.  He laughs when she tucks him on her hip, supporting his back with one hand and tickling his stomach with gaunt fingers.  He radiates the kind of joy that only a well loved, well cared for child could.

She says something in a foreign language, and the child nods happily as she bounces him.  She hums under her breath, and the child stares up at her with stars in his eyes.  Her voice is husky but clear as she sings in the same language.

She spins around the room to the melody, her feet tapping out a rhythm as she steps from the ball of her foot to her heel even while wearing a pair of worn boots.  The child giggles, holding onto her necklace reverently.  Bringing her free hand to the one supporting the child, she touches the bangles together.  To Graves’ surprise, sparks immediately fall from her fingers, trailing in an arc in the air.  The child gasps, and reaches out, only for them to disappear the moment he makes contact.

She kisses his cheek, and whispers in his ear.  The child looks to his mother, blinking his dark eyes, and even Graves can see that nothing else matters but the two of them.  Not the fact that the woman is surely starving, not that she is letting herself waste away to keep her child fed.  She is devoted to her son, body and soul.

Credence’s breathing hitches in pain.

The memory disintegrates around them, and Credence stands beside him in his office, his eyes red, tears streaming down his cheeks.

“She told me she-”  He hiccups, the words getting lost in his throat.  “She told me she loved me more than anything.”

Lacing their fingers together, Graves pulls him down, and tucks his head under his chin.  He kisses Credence’s hair, and swears that he will find and punish the man that stole everything from him.

***

When he floo calls the British Ministry for Magic, Graves is unsurprised, but pleased, that Theseus volunteered to delegate for him.

“You’re looking tired, old man,”  Theseus says snidely, looking just as tired as Graves is, if not worse.

“You’re looking old, tired man,”  Graves returns, just as snide.  There’s always been something about Theseus that makes Graves want to light a cigarette.  He only ever smoked when they had been together.  Afterall, it was better to smoke than risk spilling his feelings everywhere after sex.  

“Well,”  Theseus chuckles,  “I feel like I deserve that.”

As a war hero, and head auror, Theseus is doing well for himself.  If he had any desire to, he could have entered politics after the war, as Graves did.  Alas, Theseus has neither the gumption, nor desire to get himself involved in the pureblood brown-nosing that is British politics.  Theseus’ lack of tack is something all Scamanders must possess.  He was fond of hitting enemies with blasting curses, rather than convincing them to surrender, something that no doubt carries into his auroring work.

“A little birdie tells me you want a sit down with Selwyn?”  Theseus asks, blue eyes sharp, professional.  “Why is that, why him?”

“He will talk to me,”  Graves says confidently, only half believing it.  Erasmus and he have never been close, not even when they were fucking.  He’s counting on a schoolboy dalliance to get him the information he needs on Grindelwald.  Erasmus no longer is the boy he knew.  Is it cocky to assume that a connection they once had would inspire enough loyalty in Erasmus to betray the beliefs he now holds?

Theseus huffs.  “We’ll see, old chum.”  He scratches his nose, and tips his head to the side, Graves hears the faint murmur of someone else on Theseus’ end.  Theseus nods at whatever they say, and shifts his attention back to Graves.  “Listen, I can get you ten minutes with him, no more.  The Ministry wants him tried on British soil, so we’ve been avoiding any contact with your government.”

“He’s still a citizen of MACUSA.”

“He killed three high level Ministry employees.  Their families want him given the Dementor’s Kiss.  There will be no painless MACUSA execution, Percival, they want him rotting in Azkaban.  Tell me you won’t have him extradited, and I will give you ten minutes.”

“Theseus…”

“Promise me.”

He chews his bottom lip.

“ _Percival_.”

“Fine,”  he spits.  “How is your fiancée?”  Graves asks surprising himself.

“She is doing good, she’s working in intelligence,”  Theseus replies, warily.

Graves nods his head.  “Good.”

“Good?”

Graves shrugs, looking at the framed photograph of Theseus and him in their uniforms on the mantel.  He liked to think they were happy then, he knows better now.  “I’m happy for you.”

([Tumblr link to art, and bonus NY Ghost article!](http://iamonlydancing.tumblr.com/post/163851146827/theseus-scamander-the-war-hero-although-the))

 

“My mother likes her,”  Theseus says with a little furrow in his brow that contracts the longer they have this conversation.

“You don’t have to explain yourself to me,”  Graves says,  “I understand.”

Theseus sighs, scrubbing his hand over his tired face, Graves notices he’s sporting a ginger moustache above his upper lip.  He used to shave his face religiously during the war.  “I’ll have them bring in Selwyn.”

“I wish to speak with him privately.”

Theseus fixes him with a sharp look, but nods, before disappearing from the coals.

Graves doesn’t have to wait long.  Erasmus slides into view, and Graves barely recognizes him.  He hasn’t seen him in over twenty years, but he finds it hard to believe that this spindly man in chains was once the solid boy he remembers.

“Erasmus,”  Graves greets stiffly when those grey eyes fix on him.

“You’re looking tired,”  Erasmus says with a hoarse voice, his lips cracked, and sandy hair scraggly.  He looks as though they’ve been keeping him in a dark cellar, and barely feeding him.  Knowing the Ministry, that’s probably exactly what they’ve been doing.  Graves can hardly blame them.  Erasmus has been accused of some horrifying crimes: murder being the least of them.

“That’s what everyone’s saying,”  Graves says.

Erasmus doesn’t smile.  “Percival Graves.”  His name is rolled on a dry tongue.  “What do you want?”

“You know what I want.”

His mouth quirks briefly.  “It’s what everyone around here wants, but no one’s giving me proper motivation to give it.”

“And I can?”  Graves asks, understanding what Erasmus is implying.

He licks his lips, a swipe of a dry tongue that’s more habit than need.  “I don’t give a fuck about Grindelwald, you understand, Graves?  He can rot in hell for all I care—”  Erasmus coughs, a wet sound that comes from deep in his chest.  He continues, voice even hoarser.  “But he’s my only bargaining chip, and I sure as heck ain’t giving that away for free, no matter how good you used to do me.”

“Why did you join his followers, Erasmus?”  Graves asks, the curiosity finally wearing away at him.

Erasmus smiles wryly.  “You know how it is with us purebloods, Graves, we always gotta be picking the wrong side.  We got the darkness in our blood, and now I’ve got tubercles in my lungs.”  He coughs again.  “They’re gonna let it eat away at me for a few more weeks before they give me a potion for it.”

Torture.  Wizards are so very fond of it.  Up until a few weeks ago, Erasmus was fond of it too.

“How can I get you to tell me what you know?”  Graves asks.

Erasmus closes his eyes, he breathes heavily through his nose, and his voice breaks when he says,  “Bring me home.  I don’t want the Kiss, I want to die in America.  I want my ashes buried next to my ma.”

Graves’ throat closes.  Of course Erasmus asks the one thing he both cannot and can give him.  He has the power to, and he has the right to have Erasmus executed on American soil, but it’s the one thing Theseus asked him not to do.

Graves already knows his answer.

“I’ll bring you home, Erasmus, I swear it on my mother’s grave.”

Erasmus stares at him for one long moment, and then he nods.  He tells Graves everything.  Most of it he already knows, but little bits and pieces help him put together a picture of the other side.  They’re just as lost as MACUSA, and the Ministry are, but Magda’s vampire contact already told him that.  He’s starting to think it was all for naught until he says something that has Graves’ thoughts stopping in their tracks.

“But you said you don’t know where he is,”  Graves points out.

“We don’t now, but we did,”  Erasmus says,  “He showed up in Weimar a few days after he escaped.  The leaders were saying that that the obscurial he’d been looking for in New York had died, but there was another one in the colonies.”

“The colonies?”  Graves huffs.  “Which one?”

“Not the Americas.”

That leaves the rest of the world, minus Europe.  It’s not much, but it’s a start.  If they track down this other obscurial, they will find Grindelwald.  Graves is… relieved.  It means Grindelwald doesn’t know that Credence is still alive, but it also means that somewhere there is a abused, lonely child he is looking to exploit.  Graves doesn’t care that feeling such relief makes him a horrible person, Credence is safe, and that’s all that matters for now.

“Thank you, Erasmus.”

“Don’t thank me, keep your promise,”  he says softly, and then he’s gone.  Graves stares into the flickering flames, planning what he’s going to say to Theseus.  All cajoling thoughts disappear the moment Theseus appears, first confused, then vivid with rage when he hears what Graves did, practically foaming at the mouth.

“You selfish sonofabitch,”  Theseus hisses quietly, and the sound shoots an arrow through the heart of a man who was once thirty years old and in love.  A man Graves is no longer.

“I did what I had to do,”  Graves says diplomatically, donning his politician’s mask.  “I’ll send you the intel he gave me, and then process the paperwork for his extradition.”  Like the selfish sonofabitch he is, he continues like he’s talking to a child having a tantrum, and not the man who once held his guts in after he had been shot.  “Do one thing, Theseus, ask yourself; isn’t information better than revenge?”

“Goddamn you, Percival Graves,”  Theseus spits shakily, voice tight like he’s about to cry.  With a wave of a hand he breaks the connection.

Graves sits back on his heels, feeling like there’s a lump caught in his throat.  He swipes the back of his hand over his eyes, knowing that Theseus will never forgive this betrayal.  Forgiveness from Theseus is like asking blood from a stone.

 _I have to keep Credence safe_ , he tells himself.  That is his duty, and his responsibility.

Graves has always been best at hurting the people he loves.

***

Devi’s search pans out.  Graves and Tina show up at the docks the next morning.  He slept terribly that night, despite having Credence wrapped around him.  He could not get Theseus’ look of betrayal out of his mind, no matter how often he tried to distract himself by kissing Credence.

Credence is no better.  He knows something is bothering Graves, and he isn’t helping by asking after it.  Graves is afraid to share what he did, because then Credence will finally know what a heartless bastard he really is.

“I saw the paper, sir,”  Tina says as they walk from the apparition point.  The street is relatively empty but for a single automobile sitting on the curb.  

“Did you now,”  Graves says.

“I know he’s not your son.”

“Indeed.”

“Queenie’s fine with it,”  Tina huffs, and Graves glances over at her.

“But you’re not,”  Graves surmises, unsurprised.  She’s protective of Credence, understandably, she was there for him in some of his lowest moments.  Tina cares, and she couldn’t stop caring if she tried.  It’s always been her greatest asset—and flaw.

“He’s young, sir, and until a few months ago he was being abused by a woman that was supposed to love him.”

“I don’t know what you want me to say, Tina,”  Graves sighs, taking her elbow, and stopping them in a doorway.  “I’m not doing anything he doesn’t want.”

She chews her bottom lip, refusing to meet his eye.  “I know that.  I’m just saying that maybe he doesn’t know what he wants, and you have to be careful not to take advantage of that.”

“You care for him, and I understand, but he’s a grown man.  He can make his own decisions.”

“Sir, respectfully—”

“Tina,”  he interrupts, asking gently,  “Answer me this, if I was in my early twenties, as he is, would we be having this conversation?”

She dips her head, studiously examining her shoes.

“I love him,”  he admits quietly.  She looks at him in surprise.  He has never been one for sharing his emotions with those he works with, but since it has come to that, or Tina losing her respect for him, he’d rather be forthcoming.  “I have grown to care for him, romantically.”  He clears his throat awkwardly.  “He means so much to me, and I would do anything for him.”  He looks her right in the eye, making sure she understand, making sure she knows his motivations, his depth of caring.  “I love him, so much, it scares me.  Do you understand?”

She searches his eyes, looking for any and all untruths.  She’s so thorough Graves wonders if she somehow possesses the same legilimency as her sister.

“A lot of men use love as an excuse to do bad things,”  she says, and Graves feels like throwing his head back in laughter because that is such a _Tina_ thing to say.  He only stops himself because he knows she would not appreciate it.

“Yes, well, if you think I’ve hurt Credence, I give you full permission to hex me.”

“Frankly, I don’t need your permission, sir,”  she says with a tight smile, and pushes past him, opening the door.  She stops, poking him in the shoulder with a finger.  “That’s something I would tell anyone courting Credence, no matter their age.”

“I’m proud of you, Tina,”  he says, chucking her lightly under the chin.

She rolls her eyes.  “I bet you say that to all the girls.  Now, are you coming, sir?”

Devi’s junior auror waits for them by the stairs.  He’s sitting on the lower step, and when he sees them come in, he scrambles to his feet, dusting off the seat of his pants.  Junior auror Reed is exactly as his name implies—reedy.  Graves had seen him hovering at Devi’s shoulder before Grindelwald impersonated him, and he looks almost the same as the last time he had seen him.  He’s tall, and has an unfortunately young face that he’s unlikely to grow out of anytime soon, as well as ears like dinner plates.  But, he’s respectful, and professional.  Devi thinks he has potential, and Graves trusts her judgement.

“Director Graves,”  he says evenly, his back straightening.  His eyes drift to Tina, and he smiles kindly.  “Tina.”

“Auror Reed,”  Graves greets.

“Jamie,”  Tina says,  “Devi leave you here?”

“She trusts me to maintain the anti-apparition field, ma’am.  We have reason to believe the suspect will return.”

Reed takes them up the stairs.  It’s an empty room in a boarding house by the port.  The smell of filth rises in waves off the Hudson, as Reed explains that the magical traces found in this room are identical to the ones in the Poughkeepsie marsh.  The room is practically bare of any possessions identifying its previous tenant, despite Reed saying its been occupied for months.

A single, innocuous trunk sits open above a scratchy blanket on the bed.  Graves goes to the window.  Lifting the curtain, he peers out onto the street.  Good sightlines, he can see down both sides of the street, and down an alley right opposite.  From the inside he notices the blue tinge of anti-apparition magic surrounding the house.  He shuts the curtain and goes over to where Tina sits on the bed, a scrap of unwound fabric discarded nearby, a bound journal in her lap.

Her hands shake as she flips through, her eyes flitting over the pages.

“Tina?”  Graves asks, but she just holds up a finger, asking that he wait.

“It’s the suspect’s journal,”  Reed explains, his mouth tight.  “I haven’t had the chance to read the whole thing, but I’ve skimmed, and whatever’s in there, it’s condemning.”

“I knew him,”  Tina says, and Graves turns sharply to her.

“What?”

“Not personally, but when I was in Ilvermorny, he was infamous,”  she says, passing the journal to him, her finger tapping a page.  He reads the name printed at the top in neat lettering.   _Uriel Ashe_.

The Uriel that killed Credence’s mother, and stole him away.

Tina chews on her bottom lip.  “He was four or five years ahead of me, I don’t remember exactly, but he sent the rumor mill whirling for weeks.  People were saying he snapped his wand in front of the headmistress, and renounced magic.”

“Ashe?  I don’t recognize the family name,”  Graves says.

“It’s not the only name he uses to refer to himself,”  Reed points out.  He turns a few pages, and points to a passage.  “He must have realized his true name would not be well received in a magical institution, and changed it.”

 _I am Flame-of-God Barebone, and the first blood filth I shoot will die deserving its fate_.

“He fancies himself a scourer,”  Reed says in disgust, while Graves just stands frozen in place,  “Wants revenge on wizardkind for separating him from his family.  It seems he was no-maj born, and when he was found to have magic, his family’s memories of him were erased.”

“ _Barebone_ ,”  Tina whispers, voicing the words he cannot bring himself to.

“He doesn’t mention your ward, sir, as far as I could see,”  Reed’s brow wrinkles,  “Perhaps the surname is only coincidence?”

“Mary Lou?”  Graves asks, knowing the name of Credence’s mother is classified information, revealed to few,  “What about that name?”

“His no-maj sister,”  Reed says,  “He mentions wanting to tell her that he was her brother, but couldn’t because it would break the Statute of Secrecy, and attract the authorities.”

“That’s how she knew about witches,”  Tina says,  “He must have found some way to get around the statute.  I mean, so long as he didn’t spend too much time with her, or do magic in front of her, or say anything specific, he could have gotten away with it.  Besides, she only had rudimentary knowledge of our world.”

“Credence knew him,”  Graves says unhappily.  “His mother was a witch, and Uriel shot her.”

“Mercy Lewis,”  Tina mutters, horrified.

Reed looks between them in confusion, but he says,  “He talks about a gun his sister gave him, one that belonged to a great-uncle.  I assumed that’s the weapon he used to murder auror O’Malley when he freed Grindelwald.”

“The gun?”

Reed shakes his head.  “We couldn’t find it, it isn’t here.”

“He still has it then,”  Graves says with a twist of his mouth.

“Do you think…”  Tina trails off, her voice quietly aghast.  “Do you think he’s using it like it’s a wand?”

Graves looks at her with wide eyes.  “You’re talking about conduit magic through a no-maj weapon.”

“It’s a gun,”  Tina says,  “If it’s taken a life, especially a wizarding life, at the hands of that great-uncle, and now that he’s using it to do magic—”

“—It twisted and darkened his magic until it became what I saw in Poughkeepsie.”

“Sir,”  Reed interrupts, inhaling sharply, making a terrible sound like he was just punched in the gut,  “Sir, someone’s trying to get past the anti-apparition field.”

“Shit,”  Graves swears.  He says to Reed,  “Quick, raise a protego on the house.”  Reed holds his stomach with one hand, and pulls his wand from his duster with the other, pointing it to the ceiling, muttering a spell under his breath.  A swathe of whitish magic glitters over the walls of the house, just as a pop of apparition comes from outside.  “Keep up the shield, cover us from the window, and don’t let him have the journal,” he tells Reed.  “Tina, with me, we can’t let him escape.”

Graves bursts out of the boarding room, and rushes down the stairs, feet pounding on the rough floors.  He stops in front of the front window, and uses his wand to lift the curtain to the side, carefully peeking out.

A man stands in the middle of the street.  He’s eerily still as he watches the boarding house, chestnut hair cut in a style that reminds him all to much of Credence’s in their first weeks together, before it started growing out.  He looks to be in his mid thirties, a few years older than Tina, and he holds a gun in his hand.  Graves is unfamiliar with no-maj weapons, but even he recognizes that it’s a pistol.

Icy blue eyes dart over to him, and the gun is raised.  Graves ducks his head, but the window doesn’t blow.  A sharp crack sounds, and a white light sparks, Reed cries out, but the shield still holds, barely.  Graves doesn’t think it will make it through another direct blow.

He signals to Tina, and she nods in understanding.  She runs off deeper into the house, trying to find a back exit.  He gives her a few moments, takes a deep breath, then casts the most powerful protego he knows on himself.  For a little bit of extra luck, he sends a prayer to Credence’s god, then bursts through the front door.  Graves throws an incarcerous Uriel Barebone’s way, but he shoots his gun right at the spell.  The force of the explosion has Graves falling back, a burning pile of rope falling to his enemy’s feet.

Graves shifts.  Rolling to his feet, he gets up running for cover, but Barebone is fast.  Pain explodes across the back of his neck and chest, and he stumbles, but doesn’t fall.  His vision flashes white as his protective shield shatters.  Light burns his eyes, and Barebone approaches.

“The Ghost photographed you with him,”  he says, his voice is composed, quiet, but Graves has no reservations about what this man is.  He’s an adder waiting to strike.

Graves ducks around the side of the building, firing a blasting curse over his shoulder.  He no longer cares if they take this man in alive.  They have the journal, it’s evidence, and their only lead on Grindelwald.  They don’t need the author’s testimony.

Reed shoots a reducto from the window, but Barebone blocks it with the side of his gun.  It ricochets, blasting the cobblestones a ways down to pieces, chunks flying every which way.  Reed doesn’t give up, he flings curse after curse, the growing desperation in his voice nearly muffled by the blowing wind.  Barebone blocks every single curse, his gun smoking in hand.

Graves joins in the barrage, timing his strikes so they hit when Reed’s hit, but it does nothing.  There’s something about the gun that seems to absorb every curse they throw his way.

Reed seems to realise this the exact moment he does, because he screams the incantation for an incendiary charm that connects, sending fire spilling down the front of Barebone’s clothes.  He snarls viciously, and Graves shouts a warning just before Barebone fires his gun at the window of the boarding house.  The window blows, Reed screams in pain, and the shield comes crashing down, even as the anti-apparition field still holds.  Glass rains down from above, and smoke comes pouring from the rafters caught on fire.

Graves coughs, waving his hand in front of his face, terrified and trying to see.

Barebone steps from the cloud of smoke like an avenging spirit.  Still smouldering, he looks like what he claims to be: the flame of his and Credence’s god.

For one long moment Graves stares down the barrel of the gun that killed Credence's mother and thinks, _I'm going to die here_.  The gun glows a vibrant red, heavy black smoke pours in waves from the barrel like a waterfall, the hammer flies down and then, nothing.  The gun clicks and he meets the cold eyes of his would be killer only to see his features twist in confusion.

Tina stands to the side, her wand pointed at the gun, looking just as startled that her spell worked.  Graves recognizes those scarlet traces.  Disarmament.  It's a gun, but the disarming charm made it misfire.  The man clicks his tongue, a gesture that reminds him all too much of his mother’s disapproval, and pulls the hammer back.  Graves has the presence of mind to run for the cover of the nearby no-maj automobile.  He makes it just in the nick of time, and it shakes, creaking dangerously with the force of the shot.  The smell of burning paint and metal rises in the air.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,”  Graves mutters under his breath.  He can’t see Tina where he is, he doesn’t know how hurt Reed is.  He's not ready for this, he should not be on active duty.  His heart feels like it's about to give out, and all he can see is coming home to Grindelwald leaning against his fireplace beneath his mother’s tulip painting, a sardonic look on his milky face.  Graves was cocky then, he thought he was ready.

He was wrong.

He remembers Germany, the gunshot, and a sound akin to a melon splitting open, Peter’s brains splattered all along the front of Carson’s fucking jacket.  All over the buttons he would polish religiously, until they gleamed.  Graves had fallen into the mud when the next bullet went into his stomach.  If Basile hadn't been there to magic the wound clean it would have gone septic.  Better to have magic, than the no-maj boys who would shoot themselves in the foot to get a discharge, who were more likely to die of infection before a discharge could be processed.  Guns are filthy, dirty things, they rip, they shatter, and they blow out the brains of good men and bad men alike.

Magic, when spelled right, kills cleanly.  The killing curse cuts out the life from a person, but it does so clinically, kindly.  The gun in Uriel Barebone’s possession is a curse-absorbing bastardization.

“ _Bombarda_!”  He hears Tina yell a blasting charm from down the street.  It crashes into something, and Graves hopes Barebone was that something.

“Sir,”  Reed says, stumbling from the burning house, falling at Graves’ side.  There’s a wide gash on his forehead, bleeding steadily.  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I can’t hold the field for much longer.”  He’s terrified, eyes wide and teary as he scrambles for cover, wand clutched in his hand.  He’s so goddamn young.  He’s just a boy.  He’s just a child.  “I need to get you and Tina out so we can bring reinforcements, I—”  He starts to say, and then there’s the crack of the gun, and Reed’s brains blow across the automobile.  Shrapnel pushes Graves back, slicing into his wand arm, slipping into him like a fiery poker.  He screams, releasing a keening sound he never knew he could make.

The anti-apparition field falls, and Reed is dead by the time he hits the ground.

Barebone disapparates with a sharp crack, apparating into the boarding house.  Another crack, and he’s gone.  Undoubtedly taking the journal with him.  Graves weakly lifts his wand, and traces.

Tina cries out his name just as he disapparates.  He holds the trace, even as his wand shakes.  His arm feels like one big, throbbing wound, but he keeps his shaking hand wrapped around it.  The space between twists in his vision, flashing lights, and darkness creeping in on the edges of his vision, like the darkness seeping into his veins.  Tina’s following him, he knows this.  Good, he doesn’t think he’ll be able to stay awake for much longer.  He’s sick to his stomach just thinking about Reed.

He appears in a shady forest, snow drifting softly from the trees.  The trace is still going, which means Barebone disapparated again.  Graves doesn’t think he has the strength for another jump.  Tina will take care of it.  The wind screams in his ears, and he’s so damn cold.  Tina’s here, he can feel her hand on his face, he can hear her whispering to him.  She’ll handle it, she’ll stop the man that destroyed Credence’s life.  He loves her like he loves a daughter, and he trusts her.

Her hot hands touch him, and she takes him away from this place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> originally, Devi was supposed to die at the boarding house, but a month ago I decided I could not go down that route (cause I'm never killing off a POC character if I can help it, fuck you very much Hollywood). If I decided this before I wrote the last chapter, I would have introduced Reed then, or even earlier, just to get you guys attached, cause I’m evil like that.
> 
> Fyi, in the Judeo-Christian tradition the angel Uriel is known as the flame of god
> 
> If you can guess what work of fiction that inspired the scene with Graves and Credence in the bathroom, all the kudos to you
> 
> I posted that gif on my Tumblr back in August, and now ya'll finally get to see it in all its glorious context. Percy is such a mess, geez.

**Author's Note:**

> Leave a comment if you'd like, I thrive off them, live off them, I am basically made out of readers' comments and nothing else. Okay. Maybe ice cream.
> 
> I tumblr [here](http://iamonlydancing.tumblr.com) so if you have questions, you can drop me an ask.


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